The Trinity Comes
by mogue
Summary: A story version of the unfilmed HR script. Searching for the Resistance leads Hobbes and Pinocchio to a blackmarketeer whose motives are dangerously unclear.
1. Pearls Before Swine

**The Trinity Comes**

Author's Notes: "Harsh Realm" was a Chris Carter creation that was a fic writer's dream—Hot guys (D.B. Sweeney and Scott Barstow), gunplay (a militaristic setting), angst, whumping. And of course, because the network was ticked off at Carter, they barely gave it a full season. I _highly_ recommend it. Basically, the premise is that a virtual world—an exact copy of our own—was created to simulate war play. But a U.S. Army general high-jacked it and has created a dictatorship. And now characters are trapped inside the "game." (read the Wikipedia page).

The following story was taken from an unaired episode. I can only claim 1/3 of it since I found it on-line in script form. But I did add some dialogue and a couple of scenes. I would love to hear people's impressions.

…

**PART 1 – Pearls Before Swine**

Cleveland, Ohio. Far Territory: Harsh Realm

They were close enough to the town; Tom Hobbes waited for the familiar pattern to begin. As expected, Mike Pinocchio revved the Chevelle's engine as they turned into a deserted intersection. The balding tires pushed the vehicle into a fishtail and the untamed energy shuddered through the car, causing the steering wheel to vibrate.

Hobbes braced himself in the passenger seat. He wasn't sure what amped Pinocchio's aggressive driving when they neared what passed for civilization in Harsh Realm. He suspected that Pinocchio believed if you made a strong entrance you were less likely to get messed with once you were out of your car.

The road's intersection formed an asphalt crucifix amongst old factory buildings. The looming structures were too far outside of town to be inhabited by more than a handful of people. In Hobbes's limited Harsh Realm experience—just over four months—he had determined that the lack of protection offered by any town outskirts made such tumbledown buildings appealing only to those who were mentally unstable.

Hobbes glanced to the back seat but Florence's attention was locked forward, focused on the buildings and side streets. He'd have to ask her about his theory on Pinocchio's driving. Being mute forced the Healer to communicate and understand people in non-traditional ways. Hobbes didn't know how long Florence and Pinocchio had traveled together but he suspected it was long enough for the perceptive woman to sometimes understand Pinocchio better than he understood himself.

Florence, along with Hobbes's Jack Russell terrier, Dexter, often favored Pinocchio with the same expressions. Domesticated canines had adapted to read humans' subtleties. Hobbes suspected Dexter always settled in the backseat with Florence for a reason. They were both smart enough to anticipate Pinocchio's driving.

The Chevelle had barely grabbed a straight line when a loud pop caused them all to flinch. An unseen hand seemed to jerk the steering wheel from Pinocchio's command and the car spun out of control before Pinocchio reined it to a ragged stop.

Several seconds passed while each of them scanned the surroundings. Hobbes risked a glance at Pinocchio but didn't expect his friend's reaction—irritation.

"Don't tell me…." muttered Pinocchio as he jerked the door handle and pushed open the heavy steel door. The soldier's attitude and boldness indicated to Hobbes that no outside attack was forthcoming.

By the time Hobbes and Florence joined Pinocchio by the front left tire, their friend seemed to have verified his mumbled assumption. From his crouched position, Pinocchio looked up at them with an irritated pout.

"I half wish it _had_ been a gunshot." He fingered the damaged tire and explained. "Rolling spikes. Damn paramilitary patrols. Nothin' more than glorified bandits and bounty hunters." As if in response to the description, the distant rumbling of a heavy vehicle whipped his attention from the tire.

"We need to get off the street," Pinocchio said.

They piled back in to the car and Pinocchio had it easing toward an alleyway before Hobbes even had time to fully close the passenger side door. Less than a minute later they flattened themselves against the alley wall beside the Chevelle. A deep growl introduced a Humvee, with a hood-mounted machine gun, which rolled down the road they had just been on.

Dust curls spun and swirled in the wake of the paramilitary vehicle. The sound of the engine faded and Hobbes, with Dexter securely under his arm, eased away from the brick wall to take in the posters plastered to it. The chipped red concrete rectangles were coated with a series of tattered posters featuring the visage of Omar Santiago.

The self-enacted leader of Harsh Realm stoically stared from beneath bold letters. ONE NATION UNDER SANTIAGO. Blood-red spray paint slashed across the posters, however, cutting a line through the dictator's face, and underneath had been added a slogan in all capitals.

Hobbes read the words aloud. "Strike a blow." He glanced at Pinocchio, half-stating, half-asking. "The Resistance."

Pinocchio brushed the painted words with the fingertips of his left hand and for a few seconds Hobbes sensed it was a reverent touch but the hand was sharply withdrawn.

"Faded paint," Pinocchio said. "Old news. Santiago crushed all organized resistance long ago."

Hobbes followed the string of desecrated posters down the alley wall. "Maybe a small pocket survived."

Pinocchio shadowed cautiously and Florence brought up the rear, splitting her focus between the men before her and the open alley mouth behind them.

"Even if that's true," Pinocchio said, "even if they _were_ here - are they here _now_? Resistance fighters don't live long unless they keep moving."

A graphic stenciled heavily in black on the wall stopped Hobbes in his tracks. Three silhouettes, one ahead of the other two—a slim figure flanked on the right by a lean, muscular person and on the left by one tall and lithe. Scrawled below: HE IS COMING.

"That's not old," Hobbes said. The shiny black paint picked up what sunlight reached the alley and gave the silhouettes a glowing appearance.

Pinocchio's eyes narrowed as he studied the figures and Hobbes thought he detected the hint of a wince. The expression was quickly flattened and Pinocchio rested his hands on his cargo belt. "I'll tell ya what we got here. Alley-taggers. Period."

He focused his attention past Hobbes toward the dead end of the alley. A few people lingered around the steel door of a warehouse. A couple of rail-thin bums slumped nearby with their hands out to beg and a heavily-muscled man stood guard by the door.

Hobbes set Dexter on the ground and followed Pinocchio's gaze. "What do you think?" There was still so much that Hobbes didn't know or understand about the world within the Harsh Realm game. He relied heavily on Pinocchio to lighten the shadowy gaps.

"Some kind of unlicensed club." Pinocchio cast a glance back to the open end of the alley where the paramilitary Humvee had passed by. "We need to get off the street."

Hobbes trusted his companion's intuition but didn't want to go into total hiding. Someone in the area had stenciled those silhouettes. He wasn't sure what it meant but something told him the message was one of resistance and hope. "We can make contact," he offered. He shot a glance at Florence, looking for support, but her expression was unreadable.

"With the heroic freedom fighters?" Pinocchio asked. The downturn of his mouth reiterated the caustic tone in his voice. "Dream on."

Noise erupted from the club. The door burst open and the doorframe was filled with a hulking man. Behind him, three other large men struggled to push him out. They all burst forth as the door slammed shut.

"No!" screamed the hulk. "Let me back! I need to turn on!" He spun on the bouncer closest to him and threw him against the wall before head butting another. "I need to dream!"

He seemed to sense the proximity of someone else and spun toward Hobbes, crazed eyes fixed on him. "You! DON'T YOU EYEBALL ME!"

Before Hobbes or his friends had a chance to pull their weapons, the huge man dove into Hobbes, slamming them both to the ground. Breath rushed from Hobbes's lungs but there was no chance to pull in any more as massive hands locked around his throat.

Over two-hundred pounds of spitting rage crushed Hobbes into the dirt. From near-by, Dexter barked furiously. Hobbes clawed at the man's forearms and fingers, desperate to escape the grip. Over his attacker's shoulder he saw Pinocchio, bearing a furious-frightened expression, drive his knee twice into the man's exposed ribcage but all it produced was a sweeping counterattack. One elbow swung out and caught Pinocchio across the jaw, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

Pinned under the crazed man's weight, Hobbes struggled with rising panic. Darkness clouded the edges of his vision. Then Florence was there. She laid her hands on the man's temples and he shuddered violently before straightening and toppling sideways. Within seconds he lay curled on his side, a sobbing, heaving mess, pawing at his head.

"They're in there…I can feel them in there…cockroaches in my brain."

Hobbes remained on his back, gasping for air and coughing as Florence put a hand across his forehead. A warm, tingling sensation flowed through him and a moment later he was sitting upright, massaging his sore neck.

"Thanks," he croaked. Through watery eyes he looked at the man lying in the dirt. "What the hell?"

"He's a Dreamer," Pinocchio said. He was back on his feet, gingerly fingering his jaw as if testing it for anything broken or seriously out of alignment. "Burnt-out crazy Dreamer. Worse that PCP ever was."

Hobbes looked up at him. "What's a Dreamer?"

Pinocchio offered a hand to help his friend up. "In there," he said, nodding toward the club as he bore Hobbes's weight to pull him to his feet. "You'll see."

Hobbes scooped up Dexter and followed his friends.

…

The transition from the light to the dark wasn't solely related to the sun. To Hobbes, the oppressive energy in the dim, converted warehouse felt nearly as suffocating as the chokehold he so recently experienced. Lyric-free music pumped through the high-ceilinged space—thumping base was highlighted by hypnotic, droning rhythms of electronic keyboard. The term "house music" drifted into his memory but he was not sure if that was correct.

Hobbes trailed behind Pinocchio as they passed a bar and tables filled with hunched, quiet figures. The three friends moved down a corridor to a roped-off area where people lined up under the watchful eyes of bouncers. Pinocchio barely registered the customers but Hobbes couldn't tear his gaze from the sedate activity at the front of the line.

A pale man, with long dark hair that was pulled into a messy ponytail, shifted with tiny steps from foot to foot. He gave something to the bouncer in charge of clearing people past the waist-high chain. Sent forward, another bouncer passed the man a handful of equipment.

Hobbes nudged Pinocchio and nodded at the curious exchange. "Dreamers," the soldier quietly explained. "Digital junkies. And every junkie needs works. That thing that looks like an oversized small pox vaccinator is a Digi-punch. Wires go from that to the Watchman…the little thing with the screen that he's got in his hand."

The man shuffled to a gallery of chairs and beds and dropped into the closest empty one. Hobbes watched, feeling uneasy as the Dreamer attached electrodes from the Watchman to his forehead before jamming the pointy ends of the Digi-punch into the flesh behind one ear.

"You punch a time-limited chip right into your brain pan," Pinocchio said, "then wire up to your own screen. Watch your own fantasies turned into movies, right on your private screen. But you don't just see the images; they're transmitted directly to your cerebral cortex. See, feel, taste, smell. They say it's the ultimate high."

Hobbes swallowed down a queasy reaction and scanned the rows of Dreamers that were blissing out in their own Private Idaho. "It's like an opium den. What about that big animal outside?"

"Circuits are fried. Would kill his own mother for one more turn-on." Pinocchio caught his friend's eye. "Nothing but a walking skull."

"You ever try it?"

Pinocchio's mouth twisted with a show of disgust. "Not me, pal. Once you go there you never come back. Not all the way."

Hobbes absently rubbed Dexter's head and held him a little tighter. "What about finding the Resistance?"

Raised brows and a surprised smile were Pinocchio's first reactions. "I gotta admire your optimism, buddy, in the face of all this human depravity and baseness. Of course, I don't share it."

Hobbes took the initiative and stepped up to the bar to address the bartender. "Those signs outside…Strike a Blow."

The man—shaved bald and with a face marred by several long scars—didn't register any emotion. "What about 'em?"

Pinocchio moved in beside Hobbes and laid a hand on the bar. "Let's say somebody was looking to make contact."

Hobbes was a bit amazed by his friend's quick show of support, but a second later he reminded himself that he shouldn't be. Pinocchio's protests and self-serving statements rarely held up when it came to backing Hobbes or Florence and their honorable pursuits.

The bartender answered back. "Let's say you order your drinks and leave it at that."

Pinocchio smiled and lifted his hand from the bar to reveal a 9mm round. "I like your style. Close to the vest. Fella can't be too careful out here."

One half-second was all it took for the bartender to snatch the round off the wood surface. He nodded toward the end of the bar. "Talk to her." He drifted away as a dark-haired woman approached.

With high cheekbones, dark brown eyes and flawless olive skin the woman radiated striking intensity, but the stare she had fixed on Hobbes was downright penetrating. In stiletto heels, she slunk toward them and Hobbes couldn't help but notice the curves accentuated by her high-necked, form-fitting dress. She brushed past Florence as if the tall woman wasn't there and stopped in front of Hobbes.

"You'd like to go upstairs? Follow me."

Pinocchio stepped forward and positioned himself to Hobbes's a half-step in front, effectively creating a barrier between them. "Who are you?" Pinocchio questioned.

The woman's eyes never left Hobbes's face and he didn't mind that Pinocchio had taken up the protective stance.

"I'm Circe. I bring up the high rollers."

"And turn them into swine?" countered Pinocchio. As if his physical display wasn't enough, his reference to the Greek myth drove home his apparent attitude toward the woman. Beautiful or not, Pinocchio didn't care for the lady.

Circe's eyes flicked to the soldier who now stood less than a foot in front of her. "With most men there's very little work involved," she said coolly.

Hobbes felt like he was watching two alpha animals and knew he should step in. "We're looking for people…who want to strike a blow." He saw her brow momentarily furrow but a beat later it was smooth again. "Okay, soldier, this way. But you two only. _She_ stays here." Circe sent a small nod over her shoulder back to where Florence stood.

"She comes with us," Hobbes stated.

Circe seemed not to hear. "No Healers. It makes the customers nervous. Like having an ambulance standing by…or a priest."

Pinocchio exchanged a glance with Florence before asking Hobbes, "How bad do you want to meet them?"

Hobbes looked to Florence, who shook her head as if to say, _"Don't go."_ He had, however, already made up his mind. He stepped forward and passed Dexter to Florence while replying to her silent plea. "We'll be right back."

Circe nodded toward the back wall. "Wait over there. I'll just be a moment."

Hobbes took two steps before he realized Pinocchio hadn't moved. He hitched two fingers into his friend's tactical vest and tugged him along. "Would you c'mon?"

As they walked away, Circe leaned across the bar and whispered to the bartender who picked up a house phone. Less than a minute later, she walked straight toward the wall they stood by and passed through it, making the spot pixelate and blur. Pinocchio gave Hobbes a look, dropped his hand to the butt of his pistol and stepped into the programming glitch, leaving his friend to follow.

…

The change was palatable but unlike the first entry into the warehouse this taste was sweet and savory. Candlelight and ethereal, haunting music enveloped them. Plush couches, tiny tables and secluded nooks were sparsely populated with a better looking range of clientele but Hobbes still felt he had been dropped into a drug nest.

A contingent of dangerous-looking men draped in gold chains and pinkie rings were mixed with women who had too much beauty and exposed cleavage. Circe again fixed him with a gaze, which Hobbes finally refused to ignore. "You keep staring at me."

"Sorry," she said. "We'll keep this professional. Follow me."

Pinocchio balked. "Follow you where?"

Circe flipped back the attitude. "Do you want to see the man or not?"

"I don't want to get rolled by some B-girl like a drunken sailor. Or get my throat cut in the alley."

A sarcastic smile curled Circe's lips. "Scared of the dark? Want me to hold your hand?"

"I'll give you something to hold," Pinocchio said, "and teach you some manners."

Several hefty bodyguards materialized from the shadows and Hobbes noticed Circe's expression hadn't changed. "Maybe another time," she said.

Hobbes thought he was going to have to play referee again but one of the bodyguards beat him to it.

"Step through here, please." The man nodded toward a freestanding metal doorway in front of another door.

Hobbes looked to Pinocchio and saw an uneasy expression that he was sure mirrored his own. His friend was only here because of him; he had to keep them moving forward. "We've come this far."

To encourage Pinocchio, Hobbes moved first. He was barely a half-step from the metal doorway before a long squeal raked the air. A bodyguard had already stretched out an arm at chest level to stop him. "Take 'em off. No one gets in strapped."

Hobbes undid his holster and laid it on a small table behind the bodyguard. After a long hesitation, and a look to Hobbes that clearly showed he was not happy, Pinocchio relinquished his own weapons. When he'd finished, the table's surface was scattered with his MP5, 9mm, a pilot's survival knife, brass knuckles, and extra ammo clips.

"Lemme guess," the bodyguard said, "you're a collector, right?"

"Yeah," Pinocchio answered, pulling himself up to his full six feet height to take advantage of the couple of inches he had over the guard, "and I better collect everything I dropped off when I get back or somebody's face is gonna be meeting floor." He passed through the metal detector again and headed for the door.

Hobbes, having stepped to the side while Pinocchio surrendered his gear, now made a move to follow but Circe caught him by the arm and whispered in his ear. "Whatever business you think you have here, ask yourself: are you ready to lose? Because you will."

He pulled out of her grip and met her gaze with a confused expression before catching up with Pinocchio.


	2. Said the Spider to the Fly

**PART 2 - SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY**

Pinocchio began sizing up the new room the instant he passed through the door. It was small and softly lit with several dark-shaded lamps. Cigar smoke permeated the space and a bluish haze hovered a few feet from the ceiling. A large fleshy man sat with two others at a table. There were crystal tumblers and a bottle of white tequila before them, but for Pinocchio it reeked of nothing more than forced sophistication. You put a viper on a velvet pillow, you still got a viper.

The man responsible for the cigar smoke made Pinocchio think of an athlete gone to seed—heavy but not wholly fat—and on the hard side of fifty. He wore a dark suit with an equally dark shirt open at the collar. An eye-patch covered his left eye and his thick, black hair was slicked back and to one side.

"Mike Pinocchio!" the man bellowed. "It's about time a real outlaw walked in here. I am Bosko." He held out his hand and pumped Pinocchio's with an overly firm shake. "And the sidekick?"

Pinocchio knew his friend would answer for himself.

"Tom Hobbes."

Bosko seemed to size up the younger soldier while flashing a wide smile. "So you're here to join the Revolution?"

Pinocchio let escape a breath of a laugh. "What sort of revolution are you fighting? The sexual revolution?"

Bosko returned a broad laugh that seemed to shake the fringe on the small lampshades. "We are not Jesuits killing in the name of Christ. We are men fighting for freedom." He spread his arms in a gesture that encompassed the men seated beside him. "Freedom to live as we please."

Hobbes replied quickly. "Is that what the Dreamers get? Freedom?"

Inwardly, Pinocchio rolled his eyes. They'd never get anywhere at this rate. The kid was always on him about not dealing diplomatically with people. But when it came time to work the shadier elements in Harsh Realm Pinocchio's mouth couldn't hold a candle to Hobbes on a tear against questionable morals.

Bosko looked at Hobbes with a sincere expression. "They get freedom for a time. Freedom from their desperate lives. That's why they keep coming back."

"Until they have nothing left," Hobbes said.

Pinocchio knew his friend was right, but if you wanted meat from a hunter it wasn't good business to criticize him for using a trap.

Bosko again used his deep, hypnotic voice to offer an earnest sounding response. "That's their business. My credo is: let no man tell me how to live and I will do the same for him."

The words hung in the air for a few seconds before Hobbes spoke. "We're looking for the Resistance. I guess we've come to the wrong place."

Bosko shot Pinocchio a look and the soldier lifted his brows in a way that said, _"Whaddya want from me? Tell him he's wrong if he's wrong."_

With a sigh, Bosko leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. "Santiago has a government and its treasury behind him. The Revolution must be financed, and there are no steel mills in Harsh Realm; at least, none that aren't controlled by Santiago. Misery is the coin of the realm here, and if we must exploit it to end it, so be it."

Thin tendrils of condescension in Bosko's voice dug into Pinocchio. Hobbes could be naïve but he wasn't a child, and Pinocchio resented this puffy faux-lord speaking to him as such. "And then what?" Pinocchio countered. "How do you plan to move against Santiago?"

"Not by playing Che Guevara and running around spray painting walls." Bosko tapped ashes into the small crystal tray on the table and took a drag from his cigar. "Those people are fools. That's why I left."

Pinocchio's first reaction was surprise, but then he wondered if it really should be. "You left the Resistance?"

"They were impotent. Strike a blow?" Bosko leaned back in his chair. "They were so busy being Sunday school teachers they forgot to fight Santiago." He pointed at Pinocchio with his cigar. "You're a stud, battle-hardened. If your friend can carry his weight I'll show you both more action than you ever dreamed of."

...

The darkness coating the warehouse's high windows indicated night; the darkness Florence felt inside the warehouse revealed desperation. The Healer inside her wanted to gather each person in her arms, one at a time, and do what she could to release the desolation she sensed. But that was not how her gift worked.

On the street she had been able to sedate the man attacking Thomas. She had acted without thinking, darting in to protect her friend while being driven to help someone in pain. Yet, all she could do was release the man's anger. In the few seconds she had held contact with him, she knew the damage from so many Dream trips was far beyond her ability to heal.

Dexter sat on the bar where Florence leaned and she sensed the dog was impatient to have the pack together again. He had looked toward the glitch in the wall as many times as she. And they both detected the man weaving his way to them. Florence recognized him as the pony-tailed Dreamer from when they'd arrived.

"You're a Healer, right?" He was short with dark features and had a twitchy energy. "Am I right or am I right?" He raised one arm out to the side and said, "It hurts when I do this." A second later he dropped the limb to his side with a breathy laugh. "I know, I know, don't do this."

Florence fixed the little man with a stare but it didn't deter him. Her appearance—five feet nine inches of lean muscle, combined with the skull-skimming haircut and fatigues—was usually more than enough for most people to be deterred. But not the little man. He stuck his hand out.

"Name's Garcia."

The hand went untouched and Florence shifted her gaze back to the wall glitch, wishing even more for the return of her friends. Garcia withdrew his hand and plucked at the front of his orange Hawaiian print shirt.

"We got kind of an odd couple thing, don't we? You and me? You don't talk and I don't stop." He laughed again but it sounded sadder than before. "Some of that is from the Dreaming. I know that. It does something to your brain chemistry, doesn't it?"

The sincerity in his voice drew Florence's focus back to him and she nodded.

"Yeah. I got neurons firing blanks and others firing back-asswards, but they asked for volunteers, ya know, the Resistance asked for volunteers. Kinda nice to feel needed, if ya know what I mean." His patter ceased long enough for a nervous little laugh. "I, uh, hope I'm not being indiscrete. Healers can't be Republican Guard, can they?"

Florence shook her head and kept her attention on him, which seemed to encourage him to continue.

"They call this place Dreamland, this is the only place they can hook you up. Only place in the Territory; it's like Bosko's private cartel. So I can hardly hang around here if I'm not a Dreamer, you know? Not without attracting mucho attention from Bosko and his thugs, and I'm supposed to be like…." he lowered his voice, "gathering intel for the Cause, you dig?"

With a gentle finger, Florence pressed his lips still. Garcia nodded but soon spoke again, keeping his voice low.

"Right. Let me ask you something, you're not just _any_ Healer, are you?" He seemed to know the answer already. "No. You came with him."

An even gaze from Florence pinned him for clarification. Her mind flitted back to the silhouette of the three figures stenciled on the alley wall.

"With the Simple Man," Garcia said. "I can bring you in. I can take you to the camp. You know…Strike a Blow. Where is he?" The man's eyes darted around the room and the nervous plucking at the shirt started again. He suddenly stared intently into Florence's eyes. "They didn't….did they take him up?"

She nodded and Garcia visibly deflated. He slumped against the bar with a gaunt expression. "Up to Bosko. Up to the Cyclops. I'm too late."

...

The smoke from the freshly-lit cigar burned warm as it slid down Pinocchio's throat. He hadn't had one so smooth since his days with Santiago. Combined with the lavish atmosphere, Pinocchio remembered how damned easy it was to get used to this kind of life. Bosko leaned away from his guest and, with the same match, relit his own cigar. Pinocchio had managed to get Hobbes seated with him and together they listened as Bosko offered his side of a deal.

The two men who had been in the room earlier—aides, as Pinocchio found out—had been excused, so it was just the three of them at the table focused on a map.

"There is a convoy—Republican Guard convoy moving from the Capital City to the Territorial Fort. When those trucks come over the mountains there's a stretch of road where they'll be on _this_ side of Santiago's fence." Bosko stabbed a thick finger at a spot on the map. He clamped his teeth onto the end of the cigar and the dark brown leaves glistened with saliva. "Will I help you? You bet your ass I _won't_. You'll help _me_."

Pinocchio waited for the punch line.

"That convoy will be loaded with guns, ammo, medical supplies, and unless I miss my bet, steak and champagne for the General's staff."

Next to him, Pinocchio could sense Hobbes stiffen. _'Aw hell, here it comes.'_

"So we help you help yourself?" Hobbes asked.

"Are you a vegetarian?" Bosko countered. "A teetotaler? When I go to war I want men with appetites at my side. What about you, Pinocchio?"

Pinocchio certainly didn't oppose Hobbes's moral standing. Truth be told, and though he hated to admit, he often leaned toward it. But to get things done in Harsh Realm there were certain concessions you had to make. Situational ethics had gotten him this far in the Realm; he couldn't go all hardline and holy just yet.

He looked at Hobbes and shrugged. "He's not wrong."

The solicitation hit a brick wall. "He's _all_ wrong," Hobbes said, pushing up and away from the table. "He's a pirate, not a soldier."

Pinocchio wanted to bang his head against the wall, which was a craving that had come to him a lot since taking up with Hobbes. His mouth twisted in a smile that blended frustration and sympathy. "Who'd you expect to find out here? George Washington?"

"We hit that convoy," Hobbes said, "and all we'll be doing is lining his pockets."

Hobbes's gaze was steady. Pinocchio sighed inwardly. He might be able to convince Hobbes that aligning themselves with Bosko wasn't a bad thing but it would take some tactical adjustments. Of course, Pinocchio would have to convince _himself_ that such an alliance would offer more than just a trip to the lion's den. At the moment, he sensed more teeth and claws than anything else. Experience, however, taught him not to tip his hand to the lion. For the time being, he would play along with Bosko and see what they could get out of him. He would give ten rounds of ammo for a hot shower and a good whisky.

"Mike, perhaps your young friend left his game in the locker room."

The condescension had returned and Pinocchio's hackles rose. He stood, subconsciously taking a position between Hobbes and Bosko. A part of him now really wanted to milk as much luxury as possible out of this self-important dickweed. Maybe he would steal some towels while he was at it. "No. He'll walk the walk. Believe me."

"I'm glad to hear it." Bosko eased himself up from his chair. "It's time for an old soldier like me to retire. But you young bucks…avail yourself of our hospitality." He gestured to the two bodyguards flanking the doorway. "My men will escort you to rooms far more interesting than here. Nothing is forbidden in Dreamland. Everything is permitted."

...

Within twenty minutes Hobbes knew he wasn't going to get Pinocchio out anytime soon. They'd been ushered into a luxurious room with two massage tables and one pair of voluptuous peroxide-blonde twins. Hobbes had flatly refused to take off even his BDU button-up shirt. This left him pacing by the door and Pinocchio face down with nothing but a strategically placed towel and a blonde at either end. One massaged his shoulders while the other, his feet.

"You're making a big mistake, buddy."

"One of us is," muttered Hobbes.

Pinocchio had tried to convince his friend to cut loose and enjoy a rare bit of no-cost indulgence, but Hobbes felt unsettled by the entire situation. It's not that he didn't want Pinocchio to enjoy himself. The soldier had chosen to leave the power and comfort of Santiago's inner circle when the moral cost had become too great. Ever since, he'd lived with a price on his head, in a day-to-day existence, far outside the well-kept walls of Santiago City.

"You have no idea how good this feels." Pinocchio opened his eyes long enough to wink at the blonde working on his shoulders. "One starts at the bottom, one at the top…" He showed a Cheshire Cat grin. "And they meet at the towel."

Hobbes was barely listening. "I don't like him."

Pinocchio shrugged. "He's not such a bad guy."

"I don't trust him."

Pinocchio opened his eyes again. "Me neither. But tonight we'll sleep on soft beds, eat and drink our fill, and who knows what else? That's not so bad, is it?"

His tone was sincere and Hobbes wished their circumstances were less volatile. "No," Hobbes admitted. "It's just not for me." He resumed his pacing. "I want to be out of here at first light."

The blondes were getting closer to the towel and Pinocchio sunk into the massage table. "Yeah…Me too…Rarin' to go."

Hobbes rolled his eyes. There were times when Pinocchio felt like a brother to him and then there were times when the man made Hobbes want to bang his head against the wall. He mumbled to himself, "I want to be out of here now."

...

On a black and white monitor in Bosko's office, Circe watched Hobbes and Pinocchio talk. Her eyes never left the screen but her hands were busy screwing a sound suppressor onto the end of a pistol. Behind her, she heard the door open and she slipped the gun into a silk handbag on the ledge beneath the monitors.

Heavy hands rested on her shoulders and began massaging the muscles. Circe knew it was Bosko.

"Relax," he said. "Why are you so tense?"

"Could be the long hours…or the lack of benefits." She still had her attention locked on the screen.

Bosko leaned closer. "Who is he? The young one, Hobbes?"

"A soldier." She wasn't lying, just not revealing everything she knew.

"You're showing quite an interest in him."

Circe had let her guard down after seeing Hobbes in the bar and it had caught up with her. Bosko's vision stretched beyond the cameras that permeated his club; his guards must have noticed the attention she had paid to Hobbes. She tilted her head toward her employer. "What can I say? I love a man in uniform."

The hands on her shoulders tightened their grip and Bosko leaned close to her ear. "You love who I tell you to love…when I tell you to love them." With a firm touch he twisted her chin toward him.

"I know my job," Circe retorted.

"With you it's more of a calling." He pressed closer to her back but shifted right to pick up the house phone. "I want ID shots of our two guests off the Spa video feed. Run them against Santiago's national database…I'll be here." He hung up and looked at Circe. "We'll see if your soldier boy is fish or fowl."

On the monitor they watched a restless Hobbes leave the Spa room. Bosko slid his hand down Circe's arm and encircled her wrist, but the sensuous touch immediately turned firm. With unyielding guidance he turned her to face him. The smell of cigar smoke was as cloying as his proximity.

"Keep an eye on him," Bosko half-whispered. "Loosen his collar. I want his guard down."

Circe sensed his other hand moving and a second later the thin steel blade of a pearl-handled dagger tickled the skin of her neck.

"I want his throat exposed."

Circe had kept her eyes locked with Bosko's. From an earlier age, she had learned that manipulating men was not just about what you said but what you did not say. She would follow his orders and get close to Hobbes but the agenda would be her own.

Bosko withdrew the dagger as he leaned in and kissed the spot on her throat where the sharp pointed had rested. Circe waited for him to stand upright before she turned back to the monitor to locate where Hobbes had gone. With one smooth motion she picked up her handbag, securely gripping the pistol through the silk, and headed for the hallway.

...

Author's note: Next part coming soon.


	3. Out Flew the Web and Floated Wide

**PART 3 - OUT FLEW THE WEB AND FLOATED WIDE**

Hobbes moved with purpose. If he could find the glitch they'd come in through he could grab Pinocchio and get both their butts away from Bosko's little nightmare palace. He pushed through the first door he came to and immediately assumed this was one of the high roller suites.

No one was inside but hypnotic music filtered down from ceiling speakers and a wall of screens, some of them on, faced a half-dozen luxurious reclining sofas. The images playing on the screen, however, were uncomfortably intense for Hobbes and he turned away. Circe stood in the doorway.

"Don't you like it?" she purred.

"I have different pictures in my head. I like them better." He sensed she didn't just stumble across him and waited for her to make the next move. It came in the form of her reaching into her handbag and withdrawing something he immediately recognized. A Digi-punch.

"Really?" she asked. "Want to see them on the big screen?"

"No thanks."

Circe stepped closer and Hobbes felt like a mouse being stalked. "Any pictures of me in there?" she asked.

The question took him by surprise. "You? I think I'd remember."

Circe dropped the seductive aura. "We're alone now, Tom. We don't have to pretend anymore…pretend we're strangers."

Hobbes was baffled. "I'm sorry. I don't think I know you." He watched as her face contorted with anger and disbelief.

"You son of a bitch. You walked out of my bed and out of my life—"

"What?" Hobbes blurted.

"And now you don't even _know_ me?" She threw the Digi-punch at Hobbes's head. With wires flailing behind, it went wide and slammed into the monitors behind him.

He had ducked and come up trying to communicate. "Look, there's some mistake —" The gun in her hand silenced him.

"You're damn right. I wanted you back. I was thrilled when you walked through the door. My mistake."

She fired and a monitor behind Hobbes shattered. He raised his hands in a placating gesture, desperately trying to get his bearings.

"Hey, hold on," he said as Circe moved closer. "You don't want to do this."

"Oh yes, believe me I do."

Hobbes's eyes were locked on the pistol so he never saw her left hand come up. She slapped him hard but his military training kicked in—he pushed the barrel of the pistol to one side while simultaneously forcing her hand the opposite direction. The result was the gun in his possession and Circe looking furious for being disarmed.

"That's enough," he stated. "We're going to sit down and you're going to tell me what this is all about."

Circe dropped onto one of the sofas. "I was lame enough to let you break my heart, that's what." She slipped her hand to her neck and fingered a gold chain there. "You gave me this. You told me you loved me." Her voice cracked as she continued. "And then you went away."

Hobbes sat down beside her, stunned.

…

Bosko took a sip of tequila and watched Circe and Hobbes via one of several black and white monitors. Two sharp knocks commanded his attention. "Come," he called. One of his aides approached but Bosko didn't bother looking, just kept watching the screen. "She's good, isn't she? Even with her clothes on."

The aide handed him two printouts that finally refocused his attention. He frowned at what he saw. "Did you double check these?"

"Yes, sir."

One printout in particular garnered his attention and he studied it at length. "Those signs on the wall. The graffiti…He is coming. You have seen them?"

"Sure."

Bosko looked up at the monitor. "I don't like it."

…

Hobbes placed Circe's pistol at the foot of the lounge bed, well out of her reach, and spoke to her. "Listen. Pretend I got hit on the head. I've got amnesia. You tell me what happened."

She seemed to respond to his sincerity and relaxed back onto the sofa. "Okay, fine. You were back from Sarajevo. You had been through things there that...haunted you. I had my own demons. We found each other and vowed not to let go. Things were starting to come apart on the streets. Plenty of soldiers were already going over to Santiago...some of your buddies. But you were true-blue. The most loyal man I ever met. But one day...we stole a few hours...in a hotel room."

"When was this?"

"Four months ago."

Hobbes's eyes widened. "Four months ago I entered—" He stopped himself, knowing he couldn't explain it to her.

Circe didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were focused on images that Hobbes couldn't see. "You and me…lying side by side. That's when I asked you to get up and get me a glass of water. I promised I'd make it worth your while when you came back." She looked at him with glistening eyes. "Only you never came back."

She stood and crossed to retrieve the Digi-punch she'd thrown and spoke as she uncurled the wires and hooked herself up to one of the chairs. "Every moment we spent together. It's all right here. Right here for you to see."

Images came up on a screen of him and Circe together. Each image played for several seconds before melding into another. Some were simple, others were deeply intimate. It took Hobbes several seconds to find his voice. "I thought the images on these things were fantasies."

"About someone I never met?" Circe asked. "Never laid eyes on? Never touched?"

The scenes of the two of them rolled on and Hobbes found himself speechless.

…

Pinocchio was in his happy place. Excellent service from the blondes had left him with a warm alcohol buzz, full stomach and _very_ relaxed body. The water of the hot tub bubbled around him and the soft skin of the twins—one under each of his arms—was equally as hot.

The door creaked and Pinocchio opened his eyes with a grin, expecting to see Hobbes. _"Come on in, pal, the water's Double D."_ His expression faded, however, when the candlelight revealed the truth—Bosko with bodyguard bookends. The two men wore their pistols exposed in shoulder holsters. Pinocchio decided he much preferred the blondes' hardware. Bosko perched on the edge of the tub and lit a cigar before offering one to Pinocchio who waved it off.

"Enjoying yourself, Mike?"

"I've had worse nights."

From the inside pocket of his suit jacket Bosko withdrew several sheets of folded paper. "Look at this." He opened them and handed one and then another to Pinocchio. "Here's mine." A WANTED poster from the army of Santiago. "And here's yours."

Pinocchio barely looked at them before handing them back. "Your picture's better." He wasn't sure where Bosko was going with the conversation but his intuition told him it would be one for which he'd want to have pants on. He made a show of yawing and stretched his arms high above his head; he finished the motion by lifting himself from the hot tub.

"But," Bosko said, "the price on our heads is the same."

Pinocchio _really_ didn't like the direction of the conversation now. He didn't bother to towel off, just crossed to where his clothes and gear were stacked and pulled on his cargo pants. The chill of the room pricked at his bare skin and the water on his legs made his fatigues cling with damp, uncomfortable closeness. His back was to Bosko but he heard another piece of paper crinkle open.

"Your sidekick on the other hand…he's worth double."

Pinocchio hoped Bosko hadn't detected his momentary freeze.

"Hobbes." Bosko said slowly. "Thomas Hobbes. Who the hell is he?"

"He's my friend." There was more defensive edge in his voice than he had meant to have.

"Go on."

Pinocchio snatched up his black t-shirt, faced Bosko and tried to keep his voice casual. "He's a soldier. A soldier in the war. What else do you need to know?" He was tugging the shirt over his head when Bosko spoke again.

"Well Mike, I keep hearing rumors. Some kind of hero's coming—gonna clean up the town. Only I wouldn't want him to clean up my part of town."

A tight feeling gripped Pinocchio's stomach. He couldn't believe he had let the body parts south of his brain override Hobbes's suggestion to make tracks earlier. "Don't worry. We're fighting Santiago. Not you." He bit back what he wanted to add. _"You paranoid jackass."_

"Who sent you, Mike? Who is this Hobbes? On the other side?"

Pinocchio inwardly winced. The poor kid never should have been dragged into this goddamned game in the first place. He had something good in the Real World. He was a good person. "He's not like you and me. He'd rather be anywhere than here."

Bosko raised an eyebrow. "Not like you and me?" The phrase seemed to give him pause. "That's what I was afraid of." He glanced at the girls in the hot tub and cocked his head toward the door. "I'm afraid I'll have to send your playmates away."

Pinocchio knew the pleasure part of the evening had officially ended. He spun sideways toward the guard closest to him, reaching for the man's pistol. However, the bodyguard was already making a move toward him. Two hands grabbed his wrists and yanked down as the man's knee drove upward into Pinocchio's solar plexus. The move dropped him to the floor a second before the other guard slammed the butt of his pistol against the back of Pinocchio's skull. His vision spun and went fuzzy as he heard Bosko speak.

"Hook him up."

…

The morning sun lit the streets and alleys but its warmth had yet to penetrate. Florence, with Dexter trailing behind, followed Garcia down a narrow street between two buildings. Her eye fell on another Trinity silhouette stencil and the words beneath it. HE IS COMING. The similarity of the blackened trio's forms to her and her two friends did not escape her. She did not believe it was coincidence.

She had laid low in a corner of Dreamland overnight, waiting and hoping for her friends to reappear through the glitch in the wall. Garcia had flitted in and out of the club, bringing her and Dexter food and water. With the rising of the sun Florence knew she would have to vacate her position or risk being singled out by the bouncers. She reluctantly gave in to Garcia's appeals to follow him to the Resistance.

Garcia chattered as they moved. "We used to have these cyberpagers. GPS compass, radio freq, e-mail...great for moving through hostile territory. Then Bosko split with all the guns and the hardware...now we've got this cutting-edge technology and only tin cans and string to use it with."

He was almost to the main street when Florence detected a familiar sound. She grabbed him and dragged him backwards just before a Paramilitary jeep cruised by. When the vehicle was out of sight she released her hold; Garcia immediately bounded for an alley on the other side of the street.

"There she is, c'mon."

Florence looked to see a skinny blonde woman in a fatigue jacket watching them from the alley. When she saw she had their attention, she turned and moved deeper toward the shadows thrown by the tall brick buildings. Florence jogged to keep up with Garcia as he crossed the street and when they caught up with the woman he introduced her.

"This is Rebecca." He looked at her and hitched a thumb toward Florence. "She came with him."

Rebecca earnestly stared up at Florence. "Is he the One?"

Florence hesitated for just a second before nodding.

Rebecca's focus flitted to Garcia then back to Florence. "What about the other one? The Samurai?" A confused look was all Florence could offer, which prompted the woman to continue. "You know…the Warrior. In the Legend the Warrior gives his life protecting the Simple Man."

Florence's breath tightened in her chest. Rumor, legend, prophecy—however it was called, she believed Hobbes was the man of that story, the one destined to bring down Santiago. If there was a warrior that stood beside Hobbes, it was Pinocchio. _"…gives his life…"_ She was already turning back toward the direction of the club when Garcia caught her arm.

"Hey, wait! Look, Bosko doesn't care about all that. He used to be _with_ the Resistance, remember? He wants to see the end of Santiago as much as anybody else. You came looking for the Resistance, right? Then come on."

Garcia pulled Florence down the alley. "Hell, he's probably throwin' them a party in one of those fancy suites right now."

…

Bosko personally checked the bonds securing Pinocchio to the Watcher's chair. It could have been a dentist chair from one of Dante's deeper levels, and it fit perfectly into the dark décor of the Watcher Suite. One wall of the room had everything needed for proper bondage—handcuffs, gags, leather collars. And the tall, black leather chair was the center of it all.

Attached at the midpoint of the chair, a heavy black strap buckled tightly across Pinocchio's torso; a wide leather band stretched across his throat and attached securely to the chair at either side of his neck. His wrists were locked by his sides with handcuffs and leather shackles secured his bare ankles.

Bosko ran his hands along the edge of the chair, studying it. The metal trim and leather were cold to the touch but it felt good to him. "I always think of this as what they used in turn of the century psychiatric hospitals. Criminally insane, and all that."

Blue eyes flashed up at him. "You woulda fit right in."

Bosko ignored Pinocchio's insult and rested his hands close to his prisoner's head and knee, respectively. "Welcome to the Watcher Suite, Mike. Dreamers and Watchers. My volume business is Dreamers. Hooked up to your own fantasies, it's an automatic high. But Watchers..." He shook his head slowly and his brow furrowed a bit. "They're more like epicures. Picking and choosing among other peoples' ideas of fun. And you'd be surprised what they consider fun. We record everything here; even those dreams that slip out when a Dreamer's guard is down. You know…the nightmares. A lot of people in Harsh Realm have been through some very ugly things. Lots of nightmares logged here amongst the fantasies, Mike."

Pinocchio suddenly jerked hard against the handcuffs, startling Bosko. He fixed his captor with a hard stare. "Well, c'mon and hook me up, then," he said through a wry smile of gritted teeth. "I'd love for you to see what my fantasy is right now."

Bosko's hands were off the chair now but the calmness of his voice indicated that he was the one in control. "This is for your eyes only, Mike." From the underside of the padded leather, he withdrew a Digi-punch, its wires wound like the tale of an alien hardwired into the chair. With the speed of a cracking whip he pushed his prisoner's head to the side and jammed the points of the Digi-punch into the soft flesh behind the ear.

He ignored the curses that followed and nodded to one of the two bodyguards. Wrap-around goggles with built-in ear buds were fitted securely onto Pinocchio. A second later the other guard uploaded a recording.

Bosko was soon rewarded. Slammed into a virtual reality nightmare, Pinocchio's response was wholly visceral. His body arched upward as if electrocuted, only the bonds of the chair securing him tight. Another jolt shook his body, ripping a scream from his throat. Bosko signaled to turn it off.

Pinocchio's chest heaved with rapid breaths but Bosko didn't care. He needed answers.

"I can't even stomach one fifth of the nightmares we've recorded but if this business has showed me one thing it's that there's a customer for everything. Other people's fantasies—my definition of Hell."

He laid a hand across Pinocchio's throat and smiled briefly as the unseeing man flinched at the unexpected touch. He gently pressed his fingers into the tender skin of the jawline to turn the soldier's face toward him. Under his fingertips he could feel his prisoner swallow as well as the racing pulse. Sweat sheen already covered the pale face. He leaned close to Pinocchio's ear. "Are you ready to shake hands with the devil, Mike? Who is Hobbes?"

"Little Boy Blue," Pinocchio panted.

Bosko nodded to his bodyguard and another nightmare erupted behind the goggles. The reaction came even faster. Pinocchio's scream stalled in his throat, replaced by gurgling as his body thrashed against both the nightmare and the metal and leather that bound him to the chair.

"Off," Bosko said to the guard at the console before addressing the other. "Take his glasses off."

The blue eyes that earlier held so much defiance were now glassy.

"The thing about the Watcher chair, Mike, is how real other people's nightmares become. Nightmares from which you can't wake up. You feel things they felt, see things they saw, like it's your own."

Bosko rested his hands on the edge of the chair and leaned in. "Did you know I volunteered for Harsh Realm? On the other side—the Real World—I kind of majored in the black market. Russia, Colombia...But I could never be _The Guy_, you know?"

Pinocchio licked his lips and swallowed. "It's tough to be a warlord on someone else's turf."

"Now I wonder," Bosko continued, "if they can send killers after Santiago into Harsh Realm, they can send someone after me, too. Are those Hobbes's orders? Did he come for _me_?"

That seemed to get Pinocchio's attention. He fixed Bosko with a steady gaze. His breath was still uneven but his voice was solid with contempt. "No. You're a piss-ant. Nobody gives a damn about you."

"Tsk, tsk. Sticks and stones."

"Except me," Pinocchio added. "I'm gonna kill you. Slow. I'm gonna make a meal out of it." The flash in the eyes had returned.

The insolence grated on Bosko. The soldier's wrists were already red and chaffed from struggling against the cuffs that held him to the chair. The leather band across his throat refused to allow more than a half-inch of upward movement and it too had created a welt. Yet the brazenness didn't waver. _"He's hiding something. He knows the truth."_

Bosko nodded to his guard and the goggles were strapped back on. He waited for the next nightmare to take hold. Finally it came. The lean body tried to arch away from the chair, pulling hard against the restraints. A harsh, desperate scream reverberated off the soundproof walls before Pinocchio's head lolled to the side. Bosko motioned to the guard at the controls and the nightmare ceased.

"Who is Hobbes? Is he the One? Is he the One?"

"No," Pinocchio rasped.

Bosko's fingers dug into the edge of the leather chair. He nodded but kept his focus on Pinocchio. Another spasm shot through his prisoner and invoked a choking scream.

"Is he the One?" Bosko demanded.

"NO!" A jolt raised Pinocchio's body from the chair and a second later unconsciousness took him from the nightmare behind the glasses.

Bosko studied Pinocchio for several seconds then barked an order. "Get Hobbes. He's next."

…


	4. Deserts Bloom and Lakes Die

**PART 4 –DESERTS BLOOM AND LAKES DIE **

The plush carpet beneath Hobbes's boots was crushed by his nervous pacing. Though it had only been a virtual representation of him, he felt responsible for Circe's pain. "What happened to you? After…"

Circe's dark eyes shifted to the floor. "I did what I had to do, to survive. Like everyone else." An emotional shield dropped over her face. "But after Bosko there's only the gutter."

A part of Hobbes wanted to gather her in his arms and tell her everything would be different, better, from now on. He knew he couldn't. That hadn't been him in those memories. The woman he was meant to hold was on the other side of this reality. He couldn't be with Circe but that didn't stop him from trying to help her.

"Then get out," he said.

She breathed a sad laugh. "It's not that easy. I could ask you to help me…for old time's sake. But you don't know me, do you, Tom?"

He would have lied if he could but that wouldn't have been right. He could only shake his head. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I don't."

A soft buzz and flashing light pulled Hobbes's attention to Circe's hip where a small beeper was clipped. She glanced at its tiny message and Hobbes watched several emotions flit across her face. She locked eyes with him.

"That's Bosko."

Hobbes didn't want to ask but knew he had to. "What does he want?"

"You. He knows there's a price on your head."

A rush of realization assaulted Hobbes, threatening his stability. "Was this part of your job?" he demanded. "Keep me here? Keep me separated from Pinocchio?" If Bosko knew about Hobbes's bounty then he certainly knew about Pinocchio's.

"Yes."

Hobbes thought he saw shame in her eyes but didn't care. His only concern was finding Pinocchio and getting out. His move to the door was interrupted by Circe.

"Where can you go? You're trapped here. You can't find the glitch. You can't get out."

He knew she was right and turned back to her. "But you can. You can show me."

She rose from the reclining chair and relief washed over Hobbes, until he saw the hard look on her face and the gun back in her hand.

"Why?" she asked. "You don't know me."

The door to the suite slammed open and two guards armed with P90 submachine guns dropped into defensive positions.

Circe's pistol trained on Hobbes seemed to relax them. "He's all yours," she said.

Hobbes's mind raced. Three-armed versus one-unarmed were impossible odds. A tiny part of him clung to the idea that Florence could still be on her own in the main part of the club. And to collect bounties, Bosko would have to turn him and Pinocchio over alive. He held onto that hope as the guards approached him.

A whispered pop escaped Circe's gun and one guard pixelated and disappeared. Stunned, his partner turned to Circe. Hobbes seized the opening and dropped the man with two sharp hits. He snatched up the P90 but his mind reeled from the harshness of Circe's attack.

"You killed him."

"That's right, soldier," snapped Circe. "You think they're going to hold the door open for us?" She moved to the video control console and started typing.

Hobbes felt several steps behind. "What?"

"Switching the feed to playback. The surveillance monitors will show recorded tape of us from before." She finished and stuffed the Digi-punch in her handbag before grabbing up her pistol and heading for the door, leaving Hobbes to follow.

...

By the time they reached the Watcher Suite Hobbes had dropped back into soldier mode. He wasn't sure what they would find on the other side of the door but he was prepared to take down anything that stood between him and Pinocchio.

With Circe on his heels, he burst into the room shouting orders. The P90 in his grip strengthened his demand. "On the floor. Now!"

Bosko's attention had been on Pinocchio as one of his guards dumped a pitcher of water over the unconscious man. Hobbes was on the club owner in two steps, again barking orders. "On your knees! Hands behind your head!" His eyes fell to Pinocchio's motionless form strapped into the reclined chair and cold fingers raked Hobbes's stomach.

Water trickled down Pinocchio's face and Hobbes couldn't tell if it was water or tear droplets trailing from the glassy eyes. If it hadn't been for the ragged breath moving Pinocchio's chest, Hobbes would have thought his friend dead. Fury welled in him and he clubbed Bosko twice in the head with the butt of his gun. The man dropped and Hobbes had to restrain himself from kicking the torturer.

Circe had retrieved equipment from the walls and already had one guard secured in cuffs, straps, and a ball-gag. Hobbes kept his weapon trained on them while Circe finished but used his unburdened hand to loosen the throat and chest straps holding Pinocchio. With the guards and Bosko disabled, Hobbes laid the P90 aside and turned his full attention to his friend.

Pinocchio hadn't made a sound. His skin was cold to the touch and as Hobbes unbuckled the ankle restraints he couldn't help but notice his friend was clothed only in cargo pants and black t-shirt. Pinocchio must have realized something was up before they grabbed him, and knew it in enough time to try to get dressed.

"Pinocchio?"

Circe handed Hobbes the handcuff keys and he worked fast to unlock the metal rings. Red marks across Pinocchio's wrists, throat and ankles indicated the intensity of his struggle against whatever he had endured. Then he saw the wires. He eased Pinocchio's head to one side to get a better look at where the Digi-punch had been inserted. A whispered curse escaped his lips and he looked at Circe with pleading eyes. She understood what he was asking.

"Just pull it out." Her eyes swept Pinocchio's still form. "It's a pinprick compared to the rest."

Hobbes gently rested a hand on the side of his friend's head and, with unsure fingers, pulled out the needled device with a quick motion. Pinocchio showed no reaction even though it left several tiny points of blood. Hobbes eased Pinocchio's face towards him again and wiped away a few stray droplets of water.

"C'mon buddy, we have to get out of here." Pinocchio blinked but his eyes remained unfocused, and for the first time, Hobbes wondered about the possibility of permanent damage. He pushed the thought from his mind and tried again by cautiously pulling Pinocchio onto his side. "Mike? Can you hear me?"

Pinocchio closed his eyes and let Hobbes's touch guide him to the edge of the reclined chair. "Yeah," he rasped.

Hobbes breathed a sigh of relief but his adrenaline spiked again when Pinocchio, in an attempt to ease himself off the chair, collapsed in a heap on the floor. Pinocchio managed to roll to his knees before starting to gag, the reflex sending shudders through his curled form. Hobbes knelt beside Pinocchio, steadying him as he vomited up recently ingested foods and alcohols.

Pinocchio dragged the back of one hand across his mouth and tried to push himself up. "How do we book out of here?"

Hobbes used much of his strength to haul the taller man to his feet; Pinocchio's weakened condition was evident by wobbly knees and a tight grip on Hobbes.

"Follow me through the glitch," Circe said. "Right after we finish Bosko."

"No," Hobbes blurted. "No more. We're not murderers."

"He'd kill you fast as he'd swat a fly."

With the injured weight of Pinocchio bearing down his left side, Hobbes couldn't deny a part of him would not care if Bosko died; but he refused to let it be like this. "He's not my role model. Give me the gun."

She hesitated before handing over her pistol. Hobbes clapped it into Pinocchio's left hand before securing a hold on his friend's right arm, which was draped across his shoulder. He grabbed up the P90 in his left hand and wrapped his arm around Pinocchio's waist. It would be awkward if they had to fight but he pitied anyone who attacked from their left. "Let's go."

Circe pointed toward the far end of the room. "Through that console. Go." Her eyes flicked to Pinocchio. "I'll get the rest of his things and meet you outside."

Hobbes helped his friend toward the glitch and a second later they were in the crowded bar. In silent understanding, they tucked their weapons tight to their bodies in an attempt to conceal them and made a cautious beeline for the door. It seemed that Pinocchio's rough condition was not out of the ordinary. They garnered no attention but it wasn't until they hit the cool air and morning sunlight that Hobbes allowed himself to relax.

...

In the Watcher suite, Circe took a step toward Bosko and was rewarded when he opened bleary eyes to look at her.

"Well done," he said, "you're better than Dreaming. Nobody and nothing gets inside a man's head like you."

She smiled and did not care if Bosko knew exactly why. Without another look at the three men on the floor, she headed for the door to retrieve Pinocchio's belongings and catch up with the two men that waited for her outside the walls of Dreamland.

...

A black streak flared into Pinocchio's peripheral vision but when he looked nothing was there. _"Tired. That's all. Just need a decent six hours and I'll be good."_ He trudged beside Hobbes up a ridge as they followed Circe. Several times on the trek out of town, Pinocchio thought he saw or heard something, but each time he checked there was only a doorway or a tree.

He roughly rubbed his eyes and focused his irritability on the woman a few paces ahead of them. In a low voice, he picked up the conversation he and Hobbes had started after they'd escaped the club.

"You gotta get rid of her."

Hobbes's expression indicated he didn't agree with Pinocchio's stance. "She says we were lovers. Then I disappeared…four months ago. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, she's VC. And that's all _you_ were too, until you entered the game. Then the virtual character of Tom Hobbes went bye-bye and _you_ got dumped into a shack targeted for destruction. You don't owe her the time of day."

Circe cast a glance back. From her look, it was obvious she knew they were talking about her.

"Where the hell are we?" Pinocchio snapped.

"The Resistance camp is somewhere around here," Circe answered. "They have to keep moving to stay ahead of the Paramilitary units and bandits."

Pinocchio's irritability unleashed itself again. "How do you know?"

"Working at a place like Bosko's you can learn almost anything." With her head turned toward them she didn't see the uneven rocks in her path. The high heel of one shoe slipped between two large stones and snapped off, causing her to stumble. "Damn."

Hobbes moved to help her but Pinocchio caught his arm. "It's like falling in love with Nintendo, pal—nothing but pixels."

"I owe her now. And so do you. She saved our lives."

Pinocchio recognized his friend's expression—sincerity and determination. They were screwed. He couldn't even try to explain what he'd endured at Bosko's hands. And from what he'd seen, Circe had been up to her pretty little neck in his organization.

He knew they never would have found the glitch without Circes's help. Hell, if the timing had been any tighter Bosko would have had Hobbes in that fucking chair. Pinocchio winced inwardly at the thought. He acknowledged to himself that Circe had led them out, but the cynic in him felt that it had been too easy.

"I don't trust her."

Hobbes rolled his eyes and pulled away. "You don't trust anybody."

From their right, someone shouted. "There he is!"

Pinocchio and Hobbes spun toward the voice, weapons raised. A short, pale man with long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail stood waving. Beside him was a skinny blonde woman and Florence, who signaled them to relax. The blonde ran up to Hobbes.

"You're him, aren't you? The Simple Man."

Hobbes's brow furrowed. "I'm Hobbes," he said slowly. "Tom Hobbes."

It took Pinocchio a moment to recognize the man as the one they'd seen at the club. "Hey, you're—"

"Garcia." He didn't look at Pinocchio when he introduced himself, just offered his hand to Hobbes who shook it warily. "Rebecca, go tell them."

The blonde woman sprinted away and Garcia locked his gaze on Hobbes again. "We can bring you in."

...

The small party crested the top of a hill and Garcia continued to explain things to them. "Since Bosko split and the movement was torn apart, our numbers are down, way down. It's just the hard-core now, always on the run, nomads...man, if anybody was ever desperate for a leader it's us."

Pinocchio only half listened. His attention was focused down the hill. People streamed from makeshift huts, lean-tos, and cardboard shacks. A sentry started the call and it was picked up by the other members of the Resistance.

"He is coming…He is coming."

They entered the camp and a part of Pinocchio wanted nothing more than to grab Hobbes, Florence and even Dexter and hightail it out of there. The crowd closed in around; outstretched hands reached to touch Hobbes. Soft voices followed them as they pressed deeper into the camp.

"The One…He's the One."

Pinocchio kept an eye on Hobbes. He did not like the overwhelmed expression on his friend's face. Hobbes looked to him.

"What's going on?" the younger soldier asked.

"Goofballs," Pinocchio answered. "Bunch of goofs." He infused his tone with as much nonchalance as he could but he struggled to stifle a rising edginess. He wasn't sure he had prevented his true thoughts from showing.

Hobbes's voice was tight when he spoke again. "I don't want this."

"_You and me both, pal."_

_..._

Hobbes's focus momentarily drifted to where Dexter sat receiving head scratches from a young, dark-haired girl with long braids. The dog's eyes were closed and Hobbes swore he was smiling. _"At least one of us is relaxed."_

At the center of a circle, surrounded by members of the camp, Hobbes stood facing their leader. The white-haired man had introduced himself as Peter. The lines set in his face showed the hard road he had followed but there was a bright energy reflected in his pale blue eyes.

Hobbes reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled into what seemed to be a welcoming ceremony. While it was benign enough, he felt better knowing Pinocchio and Florence maintained positions close behind him. The attention he had received since entering the camp had been unsettling.

Peter's voice pulled Hobbes back. "We've been out here three years, some of us—in the deserts and the hills and the forests—fighting a holding action. Trying to hang on, fighting to survive."

The leader drank from a goblet before passing it to Hobbes, who took a small sip and had to stifle his urge to wince at the taste.

"And what sustained us," Peter continued, "the story of the Simple Man."

Hobbes handed the cup to Pinocchio who was far less diplomatic. With a sniff and a near gag, Pinocchio muttered just loud enough for Hobbes to hear, "Simple is right."

Hobbes shot him a reproving look and Pinocchio returned a petulant pout before thrusting the goblet into Florence's hands.

"Tell me," said Hobbes, "about the legend."

Peter raised his head at bit and Hobbes got the sense that a sermon was about to be delivered. "There will come a Trinity—The Simple Man, The Samurai, The Healer. The Simple Man will come to lead us. A Simple Man come to kill the Goliath."

Hobbes felt his breath catch in his throat. A thought occurred to him and he turned to Pinocchio. "Did you know about this?"

Pinocchio's head dropped and at first he only answered by glancing up through dark lashes. His lips pursed sideways. "Maybe I…heard something like that."

Hobbes shot him a look. _"We will be discussing this later."_

Rebecca was behind Peter and took a half-step forward. "A Simple Man who Santiago tried to slay and failed."

Between the disturbing reverence and Pinocchio's avoidance, Hobbes had reached his limit. "Okay, listen. I don't know what you people _think_ happened with Santiago—"

Garcia cut him off. "He shot you in the back like a dog, man. Point blank."

"And you rose up," Peter added. "Like a phoenix."

Hobbes shook his head. "That's not true. It didn't happen that way." A buzz of reaction rippled through the crowd but Hobbes noticed it was still glowing veneration.

Peter smiled. "The denial is part of the legend."

"They never shot me," Hobbes said, raising his voice. "They shot…my fiancée." He swallowed back emotion. "They killed Sophie."

Again, Peter smiled and the expression was like a teacher correcting a bright, but mistaken, student.

"There is no wife in the legend."

"Yeah?" Hobbes challenged. "Then it's rewrite time." His eye fell on Circe, standing away from the crowd and he used it as an opportunity to escape the circle.

Peter called out after him, following. "There will come a Trinity—The Simple Man, The Samurai, The Healer. All others are but tests along the way."

The crowd dispersed as Peter, Pinocchio and Florence trailed in Hobbes's wake. Pinocchio fell in beside Peter. "Besides eating bad mushrooms and spouting mumbo jumbo, do you Resistance fighters do any resisting? What about safe houses, ID chips, fuel and weapons? What about - Strike a Blow?"

Peter's focus was on Circe. "As soon as she is gone we can speak freely."

Hobbes was beside the woman now and felt her press closer to him in reaction to Peter's stony gaze. "She saved my life."

Garcia flanked Peter and shook his head. "That's what she _wants_ you to think. That's what _Bosko_ wants you to think, man. That is one devious cat, I can tell you from personal experience—"

Florence laid a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him.

Hobbes sought an ally in Pinocchio. "I never would have found you without her." He looked back to Peter. "She stays."

Pinocchio looked away, shaking his head, and replied under his breath. "Wrong."


	5. What a Tangled Web We Weave

**PART 5 – WHAT A TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE**

The edginess wouldn't leave him alone. Beside him, Hobbes peered through binoculars toward the distant mountain pass that Garcia had pointed out. Pinocchio knew he should be more vested in the reconnaissance but he struggled to concentrate. Several times during the hike led by Garcia, Pinocchio caught movement out of the corner of his eye or grabbed an acrid whiff that made him want to gag. But a second later he would realize nothing was there. Neither Hobbes nor Florence seemed to notice and Pinocchio sure as hell was not in the mood to share.

He had tried to catch a few hours of sleep before the recon but anything peaceful escaped his grasp. Behind closed eyes were flashes of nightmares—other people's nightmares—that snapped and tore at him until he jerked awake. Residual pain under his skin lingered just long enough to make him unsure if it was real or imagined.

Now he found himself venting again in an effort to refocus the irritability that he could not purge. He had drawn Hobbes into a rehash of their discussion from that morning. "If everybody tells you to blow that chick off, maybe you should listen."

Hobbes didn't lower the binoculars. "They want a leader, not a follower."

"Are you buying into this 'He's the One' crap?"

"No," Hobbes said, finally looking at his friend. "Not the way they mean it. But we need people to fight Santiago. This is the opportunity we've been looking for. I'll take it."

"And do what? Wander the desert and drink entrails with these Dennis Hopper wannabes?" Pinocchio could feel Florence's gaze on him and knew she disapproved of his challenging Hobbes.

"Hit the supply convoy," Hobbes said, "after it comes through the pass; before Bosko does."

Damn kid _was_ trying to be a savior. "Backing _this_ bunch over Bosko," Pinocchio said. He wanted Hobbes to hear the idea aloud once more. "It could boomerang in a big way."

"You said it yourself to Peter. It's time to strike a blow."

"You really think we can take a Republican Guard convoy with these Mouseketeers?"

Garcia raised his hand. "I could stop that convoy." Three sets of eyes fixed on him. "If I had a few chips and power cells. Of course, that's like the old joke…we could make a sandwich if we had some meat, if we had some bread."

Without a word, Hobbes handed the binoculars to Pinocchio and took off at a jog back to camp. Pinocchio didn't bother to call out to his friend. The man was on a mission, which meant it was up to Pinocchio to keep the single-minded idiot from getting himself killed. He threw a look to Florence but her expression implied she was already prepared to back Hobbes's plan, whatever it may be.

The Healer headed back to camp with Garcia on her heels. Alone on the hill, Pinocchio could only curse his frustrations at the sky before following.

...

In camp, Hobbes finally located the person he sought. Circe sat on the bumper of a pick-up truck tightening the laces on a pair of combat boots. She was dressed now in a pair of men's trousers and an oversized sweater. Hobbes's approach didn't seem to alleviate the melancholy aura around her. A group of women were a few meters away, gathered in a close circle.

"They won't talk to me," Circe said, nodding toward the group. "Won't come near me. Your friend, the Healer, got these for me." She indicated the clothes by plucking at the sweater. "They treat me like a leper. Do you think I'm a spy too?"

"No," Hobbes said. He meant it but was not sure if she believed him. "And here's your chance to prove it. That punch, that thing for Dreaming…do you still have it?"

She looked up at him with the tiniest smile but Hobbes couldn't tell if it indicated that she was glad to be useful or pleased that he needed her. She reached into the bag at her feet and withdrew the Digi-punch.

...

It was like a cyber-museum. Hobbes scanned the cluttered tables under the makeshift black visqueen tent—old, outmoded, outdated computers; monitors; keyboards...all stitched together into some kind of network with rubberbands and Scotch tape. Garcia leaned over a workbench and Hobbes clapped the Digi-punch onto the table under his nose.

"Wow." Garcia ran his hands over the punch before he looked up at Hobbes. "Can't turn on with that by itself, need wires and screen too."

"Forget turning it on," Hobbes said. "What if you took one of these apart? Could you stop the convoy?"

Garcia licked his lips. "Well, there's high-end mini-chips and serial transducers in here. If we restrung them...cobbled together a power supply..." He trailed off and looked up at Hobbes.

"See what you can do," Hobbes said, "and let's hope it's enough meat and bread."

...

Midday sunlight reflected off the river water and pushed hundreds of unreachable sequins downstream. Florence had always found the reflections hypnotic. In water you could cup your hand under the surface and it seemed that whatever was reflected there was in your palm, in your grasp.

The women downstream from her washed clothes and seemed oblivious to the magic in the water. Another figure, however, stood alone up river. Circe stared at her own reflection, only looking up when Florence stopped beside her.

The polished, painted woman who had first appeared in the club had faded. The make-up had worn off, the tight dress and high heels had been replaced by boots and mannish clothes.

"Do you hate me too?" Circe asked. The dark brown eyes held no anger, just weariness. Florence shook her head. Circe studied her for a moment. "You've been with him." It was like a question to which Circe already figured the answer.

Florence suspected a woman like Circe would have a hard time believing the truth. In Circe's world, if a woman aligned herself with a man it was a give-take relationship—he took what she had and would give her what he deemed adequate. Again, Florence shook her head.

"No? Do you have feelings for him? As a woman?"

A silent shake of Florence's head was barely managed without a smile. To think of Thomas or Michael in that manner was to think of a brother. Circe monitored Florence's expression for several seconds before she seemed to believe the answer by nodding.

Circe looked into the water. "I've known he was special for a long time. But Tom's no messiah. He's a man. He's _my_ man." She stared up at Florence. "We can't let these people sacrifice him to some legend."

Florence had no intention of seeing her friend sacrificed for anything but she could not deny what her instincts had told her months ago. The moment she had laid hands on Thomas to heal him from that bullet wound she had felt something. She had told Michael and he had known too.

From her initial contact with both Michael and Thomas, the feeling of protectiveness had been especially strong towards them, far more than the natural caring instinct possessed by all Healers. And since hearing Rebecca speak of the Legend: the Samurai—the Warrior giving his life to protect the Simple Man—Florence vowed she would do whatever was necessary to keep both her friends safe. So here she was, watching elements of a rumor develop while trying to keep other elements from coming to pass.

Circe kept her eyes on Florence. "You believe it too. You believe he's the One."

Florence nodded.

"That's why you're always by his side." Circe looked back toward the camp. "But I'm sticking even closer. Because I couldn't stand to lose him again."

As Thomas's friend, Florence was unsure if Circe's devotion was good or bad.

...

For most of the evening Circe had kept to herself. Her talk, such as it was, with the Healer only solidified the path she would pursue. When the mosquitos at the river grew impossible to ignore she mustered her courage and went to find Tom.

Light from the tech tent glowed through the visqueen covering and drew her over. To her disappointment, only Garcia was there. He was hunched over a monitor but didn't acknowledge her entrance.

"How's it going?" she asked.

Garcia swiveled around, anger lighting his eyes. He sat upright, blocking her view of the computer screen. "You can't come in here!"

His reaction startled her but she quickly recovered. "Why not? Are you working on Tom's plan?"

"Am I…? Listen sister, the last person I'm gonna tell is you. I might as well get Bosko on the horn and fill him in myself."

She bit back. "Without me you wouldn't have those little chips to play with." She had seen Garcia around Dreamland. She knew he was not an innocent and was not about to let him look down his nose at her.

"So you say. Now beat it. We both know you'd sell us out in a heartbeat."

"That's a lie. Tom believes me."

"So you say. Now get lost."

Garcia's words stung. She spun away from him and stormed from the tent. None of these people knew her; none except Tom. She wasn't sure why he had acted the way he had earlier, claiming he didn't know her. But he'd been kind to her since then. Not loving, but kind, and that was a start.

She weaved through the quiet group gathered around a blazing campfire. Some cleaned firearms; others filled ammunition clips or sharpened knives. Away from the group she saw him, pacing slowly with his hands dug deep into the pockets of his pants. He was studying the stars but turned toward her when he heard the crunch of gravel underfoot.

"It's tomorrow, isn't it?" she asked. Tom looked at her but didn't immediately answer. Her pulse quickened. "Have they poisoned you against me too?"

Tom's expression seemed to soften and he shook his head. "Tomorrow."

An idea came to her and she took a step toward him. "Take me with you. I want to prove to these holy rollers I'm a fighter…not a traitor."

He studied her briefly as if trying to detect something other than sincerity. "It could get rough," he said.

Circe smiled. "I can get rough."

The same expression was reflected back and Tom added a nod. "Okay."

At the sight of his grin, Circe felt her stomach flip. "Are you all wound up?"

He shrugged. "I always get butterflies the night before."

With a small step she moved closer to him. "Maybe we both need to be a little more relaxed." His expression remained neutral so Circe tried again. "Tom…I need to feel your arms around me." She leaned into him, curling against his chest. She closed her eyes when she felt him wrap her in an awkward hug. His tentativeness was evident so she took his hand and led him down a path.

The stars above looked different to Circe, brighter. Under their feet the meadow grass felt spongy and welcoming. She still held Tom's hand, pulling him toward the center of the open field. He tugged back, stopping them.

"Circe," he said, but stopped himself. "What's your real name?"

"Nancy." It was the first time she'd said the name since he had asked her all those months ago on the night they met. She felt transported back to that moment and suddenly stretched up and kissed him. However, it felt the same as the hug. She dropped back and finished her thought. "Nancy Kraus from Cleveland, Ohio."

His demeanor instantly changed, as if something in those five words tapped him with an electric shock. He pulled away. "This is wrong."

She grabbed at his arms. "No. It's so right it's the rightest thing in the world."

He pushed her hands away and stepped back. "No. I have a fiancée. She's pregnant with my child. I can't betray them."

Circe's brow furrowed. "You said Santiago killed her."

"Only in this world," he said. "She lives in another."

"_Maybe he did get hit on the head," _she thought. "Don't get mystical on me now, Tom. Tonight is just you and me. Who would know?"

He shook his head. "I would know."

She couldn't believe the irony. The most loyal man she had ever met and now he was loyal to someone else. "Now that you've got your flock I'm not good enough for you anymore. Is that it?"

He looked apologetic. "No. Listen—"

"You think you're some kind of savior?" she spat. "That story only ends one way." The look Circe saw in Tom's eyes was pity, and it angered her.

"I'm sorry." He turned and headed back toward camp.

"Tom! Don't you leave me again! Don't you dare!" She could only watch, furious and hurt, as he kept walking.

...

Half of Pinocchio's attention was on cleaning the disassembled 9mm on the blanket at his feet, and the other half was on the head of the trail where Circe had led Hobbes. His friend was more than capable of taking care of himself but Pinocchio's little voice nagged that Circe was as skilled in mind games as she was at close-quarters maneuvers.

Twice, Pinocchio thought he saw a dark figure in his peripheral vision but when he looked, he saw nothing but trees. The skin-crawling unrest that had plagued him since Bosko's remained unrelenting. He decided it was not getting worse, definitely not getting worse. He was sure he'd feel better after the attack on the convoy tomorrow.

He shifted on the log-cum-stool and decided to give Hobbes a few more minutes before launching a private search party. The damn kid always wanted to help people. It was like he thought he could change Harsh Realm one person at a time if he was simply nice to them. Pinocchio had been in-game, on _both_ sides of Santiago's walled city, long enough to know that that was not how this place worked. Sure, it had worked more often than not when Hobbes tried it but that was not the point. Pinocchio worried that one of these days being nice was going to get his friend a knife in the back, literally.

The gun oil was slippery on his fingertips as he reassembled his weapon. He was about to check his watch again when a lone figure appeared from the trail and seemed drawn towards the bonfire, as well as the council meeting that Pinocchio had done his best to tune out.

Hobbes's stride did not slow; he joined the meeting and stepped to the center of the circle before addressing them. "The time has come to strike. To strike back at Santiago. To strike a blow!"

The chant was taken up, one by one, until it became a shout, a roar. "STRIKE A BLOW! STRIKE A BLOW! STRIKE A BLOW!"

Now standing, Pinocchio stared at Hobbes, not believing or liking what he was witnessing. Hobbes looked to him and Pinocchio swore it was an invitation to join him in the center of the circle. Pinocchio holstered his pistol, shook his head and walked away.


	6. Blood in the Sand

**PART 6 – BLOOD IN THE SAND**

Waiting was not something Florence usually had an issue with. Before she left her group of Sisters she had spent many hours in meditation. Waiting for battle, however, was an entirely different creature. It was like bugs that skittered up your arm, a mosquito buzzing in your ear that returned after each swat.

The information Bosko had shared with Michael and Thomas had provided the day and place but not the time. So they waited. The Republican Guard convoy moving from the Capital City to the Territorial Fort would pass along the winding road they watched. A single sentry, posted a half-mile away with a mirror, would flash notification when the line of trucks entered the valley.

Early evening began to bleach the blue from the sky, leaving half of it a pinkish-white. Around her, perched on whatever makeshift seats they could find, waited the others: Michael, Thomas, Garcia, and the strongest and most battle-experienced of the Resistance fighters. Garcia was settled in behind a large clump of rocks and hunched over his paraphernalia—a computer keyboard wired to a bunch of jerry-rigged projector-like pieces of equipment.

Florence was about to stand to stretch her legs when the signal came. Immediately, Thomas and Michael deployed their people to both sides of the road. Florence was there for armed support but she had her own specific agenda—she would stick close to Thomas.

Close-by, Garcia typed combinations of numbers and letters on his keyboard. A greenish fluorescent light emitted from the projector and the light materialized into a long thin micro-fiber sheet that stretched across the road. Faint dust clouds indicated the approach of the trucks even though they were still hidden by trees and the curves of the road.

Michael and Thomas scrambled down to the side of the road and Florence followed. They settled in behind Garcia's eerie hologram sheet. By Florence's understanding of the technology, they would be hidden from the trucks view by the sheet. The image on the screen would be exactly the view behind it—an electronic painting of the real landscape.

She felt exposed and sensed Michael felt the same. She watched him check, unnecessarily, the sling hook on his MP5 before flicking off the safety.

"You think this thing will hold?" he asked Thomas, nodding at the hologram.

Thomas's eyes flitted up to the little man crouched amongst the electronics, and then back to Michael. "Garcia says it will."

Michael didn't seem to take any more comfort in the answer than did Florence. "If he's wrong, you won't be The One, you'll be The Dead One."

Thomas flashed his friend a cocky smile and patted him on the arm. "You're The Samurai. You'll protect me."

Any answer Michael would have given was silenced by the appearance of the convoy. Four trucks rolled toward them in single file. Florence swallowed down the apprehension that came from watching your enemy barreling down on you while hoping they were blind to your presence. The convoy speed didn't relent despite their proximity—thirty meters, twenty, ten….

The lead truck hit the holographic sheet and it seemed to engulf the truck, wrapping around its sides like digital rubber. As if suddenly blinded, the driver slammed on the brakes. A violent domino effect ensued. A squeal and groan emanated from the following vehicles as they tried to avoid hitting the lead vehicle. The air seemed to shake with the smashing crunch of metal against metal, one truck bashing into the back of the next.

Florence cast a quick glance up to Garcia who flashed a thumbs-up and a wild-eyed smile. Thomas and Michael were already moving. They led the swarm of Resistance fighters, taking the lead truck for themselves. Florence registered the shock of the paramilitary soldiers; to them it must have seemed that gunmen appeared from the air itself.

Stunned, the drivers were hauled from their vehicles. Guards, dazed from the crash, had weapons wrenched away before they seemed to even realize they were under attack. In minutes, Florence hung off the back of the last truck, keeping her weapon trained on the face-down forms of soldiers on the side of the road as the appropriated convoy rolled away.

…

The dirt kicked up by the trucks as they entered the Resistance camp permeated the cab but Hobbes didn't mind. From his spot in the passenger seat, he gave Pinocchio a small smile as his friend eased the lead truck to a halt and shut it down. Pinocchio seemed to sense the scrutiny and looked at Hobbes, immediately mirroring the expression.

"What're you grinnin' about?" Pinocchio asked, with no hint of criticism. He pushed the door open and dropped to the ground, leaving Hobbes to follow suit. Hobbes's smile grew. For Pinocchio, that little grin was practically a whoop of joy.

Hobbes's feet hit the ground just as a champagne bottle from a confiscated case was popped open. Raw cheers and applause burst from the Resistance fighters, but Hobbes couldn't join in. He looked at Pinocchio, who had come around the front of the truck, and his friend verbalized the thought they both had.

"Where the hell is everybody?"

"There," Hobbes said, pointing to the line of people being marched at gunpoint up from the river. All those who hadn't been used to fight were now being used against them—hostages of Bosko.

"Welcome back, my old friends!" Bosko called through a loud hailer from a ridgeline to their left. He stood in the back of a Jeep, leaning on the rollbar and flanked by a line of men armed with automatic weapons. "Don't bother off-loading everything. We'll just take the trucks. And please, don't be stupid. Even I don't want to kill women and children."

Hobbes felt like he had been kicked in the chest. They were surrounded, stuck, and outgunned. Beside him, Pinocchio's rage was evident.

"That VC bitch sold us out."

Hobbes's first reaction was to defend Circe but a more pressing matter pushed its way to the front. Bosko commanded his Jeep down the hill toward them, rolling past the stolen trucks.

"Well done," he called to the Resistance fighters. "You're better bandits than we are."

Pinocchio had his pistol drawn before Hobbes could stop him. Hobbes grabbed his arm.

"No," Hobbes demanded.

"I'm gonna take him out."

Hobbes felt lucky that Pinocchio had shown enough restraint to not simply draw and fire. It had only been yesterday morning when Hobbes had pulled him, dazed from torture, out of Bosko's Dreamland. And now the son of a bitch had them in his one-eye site again.

"You'll start a bloodbath."

"We just let him grab everything?"

The strength in Pinocchio's arm was easy to wrestle against compared to the flash of weariness he saw in the other soldier's eyes. For an instant, it was painfully obvious that Pinocchio _did_ believe in the Resistance, in the hope that Santiago could be overthrown, and in the idea that the ugliness of Harsh Realm could be swept away and someone like Mike Pinocchio could live a life in this computer generated universe that would be better than anything he could ever hope to achieve in the real world. In that instant, Hobbes would have liked nothing more than to help his friend get one step closer to that reality but any action would start a suicide skirmish.

"Live to fight another day," Hobbes answered. It took several seconds but he finally felt the muscles under his grip relax.

"Okay, Swamp Fox," Pinocchio said. He pulled out of Hobbes's grasp, holstered his pistol and turned his disgusted expression on Bosko.

"Why the long faces?" Bosko asked as his Jeep rolled to a stop. He had apparently been oblivious to the exchange regarding shooting him. "We make a great team."

"I've got a bullet with your name on it," Pinocchio said. His hand still rested on the butt of his gun.

Bosko seemed unfazed. "Stand in line, hotshot. But use your head—my plan, your execution...home run. Do I hold a grudge you tried to rip me off? You bet I don't. Together we'll be unstoppable."

Hobbes looked at the meaty face, with one eye hidden by the eye patch, and wanted to shoot Bosko himself. He was utterly taken aback by what Bosko had suggested. The sun was setting, glowing behind the man like a ball of fire from Hell, which seemed uniquely appropriate. "Together? You expect us to sign on with you?"

From his position above them in the Jeep, Bosko simply shrugged. "It's the smart move. Together we have cunning _and_ bravery. These fools have neither. And what have I done but take what was mine to begin with?"

"No deal," Pinocchio said.

"We don't march under your flag," Hobbes added.

Bosko pulled a cigar from the front pocket of the leather jacket he wore. "The offer stands. You'll change your mind. And I'll be waiting." He started to lower himself into the seat behind the driver but stopped, laughing, and stood upright again. "Where is Circe?" He scanned the crowd of hostages until he picked her out from the back, standing on the fringes of the group. A few seconds passed as he seemed to take in her less polished appearance and he laughed again. "You'd better come with me, for your own safety."

The woman's eyes widened. "No! It wasn't me."

Bosko pinned her with an emotionless stare. "Game's over, gorgeous." He tapped his driver and dropped to sit as the Jeep led the way out of the camp with the convoy trucks and guards trailing behind.

The growling of engines vibrated in the air but it went unnoticed. Attention was now on Circe. "It wasn't me! I swear!"

Peter burst from where he stood with the Resistance squad and bore down on her. The calm, hope-filled leader they had met yesterday was gone. Before them now raged a wild-eyed despot. "Take her! She's a lying traitorous whore!"

The anger and impotence racking every member of the camp spewed a vehement need for relief of any kind. Two men had stepped forward, grabbing Circe by her arms.

Hobbes moved toward them. "Hey!"

"Tom!" Circe pleaded. "Tell them it's not true."

Hobbes didn't know what to believe. "Did you lie to me?"

"No!" The desperate sincerity blanketing her face was difficult for Hobbes to doubt. But how else had Bosko known?

Peter raised his hands and shouted to the crowd. "The proof is overwhelming. She must pay."

Hobbes couldn't bring himself to move, he could only watch as Peter led the way and they dragged Circe toward a nearby tent.

"Tom!" Circe screamed.

Like the others, Pinocchio, too, seemed to need a target for his frustration. He stood beside Hobbes and watched the swirling mob envelope their leader. "She played you like a violin." Without looking at his friend, Hobbes turned and headed toward the river.

…

Through the tent's opening, she could see what they planned for her. A stake, erected in the middle of the compound, was being surrounded with wood. Bonfires burned throughout the compound, but she knew the one to come would be the biggest. The sun was gone from the sky and she sincerely regretted that she would not see it again.

She had given up struggling before they had finished binding her hands and feet with the thin rough rope. Dumped in the tent with two guards, she had watched with surreal detachment as the sun had set and the large, heavy wood pole went up. It had occurred to her, as the hole had been dug to support the stake, that she had actually given up a long time ago. Life had become a struggle after Tom disappeared.

It was an empty shell that had taken up with Bosko. And now that Tom had rejected her a second time, it would be an empty shell that these foolish, beleaguered peasants burned alive when the full moon reached an appropriate height in the sky.

The grinding click of gravel under boots signaled the approach of someone. For a split second, the games she played as a little girl rushed back and caused her pulse to quicken. She imagined her heroic prince, sweeping in, banishing the pirates and gathering her off to safety. But that girl and her happy endings was long-since dead. Sitting in the dirt, with tied wrists encircling knees that were folded to her chest, she waited to see Peter's face, weathered and dark.

Her view of the stake was blocked by someone she never anticipated. Pinocchio stepped in and only acknowledged the guards long enough to give them an order.

"Wait outside."

Circe was a little surprised by how automatically they followed the command, but the man before her had clearly once been a proper soldier. He was tough enough to have handled what Bosko had doled out to him in the Watcher's Suite. Perhaps it was not so strange that the Resistance fighters, the make-shift Army men, obeyed without question.

Pinocchio approached and crouched to match her height. "Okay, just you and me now. No grandstanding for Hobbes. I want the truth."

"It wasn't me."

"Bosko said it was." The look in Pinocchio's eyes belied his attitude. To Circe, who had bet her survival on reading and manipulating men, it was evident that under this soldier's stone exterior was something far more complex. Tom risked his own life getting Pinocchio out of Bosko's grasp. And if one was to believe the rumors and rumblings, this man may just lay down his own life for his friend.

"And you believe _him_?" Circe asked. "He's protecting the real mole."

Pinocchio looked over his shoulder at the stake and then back at Circe. "I won't let them kill you. Not if you tell me the truth."

"The truth?" She surprised herself with the intensity with which she spat those words. When she had lied and cheated, it had kept her alive and surrounded by comforts, but since taking the ethical path, her rewards had been old, dirty clothes and now a witch's fate. She met Pinocchio's piercing stare. "I love Tom. I would never betray him."

"Come on! He rejected you, time and again. You were hurt. You did it for payback, right? You did it for revenge!"

"No," she said. She suddenly felt like a trial witness being torn down by a prosecutor.

"Then," Pinocchio said, his voice dropping back to normal, "the only other explanation is you were working for Bosko the whole time."

"No!" Why couldn't he see the truth? Had the time in Bosko's chair really scrambled him? She had seen so many Dreamers pulled in to the dark. She could not believe that of Pinocchio. He was Tom's friend, the Healer traveled with him, his character and strength had to be a step above the majority of people—the paranoid dogmatists—she had dealt with in Harsh Realm.

Movement in the doorway grabbed their attention. Peter, flanked by the two guards, looked at her with disgust. "It's time."

Circe looked to Pinocchio, hoping to see a light of faith in his eyes, but the expression reflected back at her was void of emotion.

…

Hobbes watched Peter light the torches held by other members of the Resistance as Circe was led to the stake. It was like viewing a movie; the events he was witnessing didn't feel real. He became aware of Pinocchio stepping up beside him.

"We can't let them kill her," Hobbes said.

"Try and stop them and you'll get a hotfoot too." Pinocchio's gaze, despite being directed toward what was happening, seemed unfocused.

"I don't think so," Hobbes said.

"Why not? Because you're the One? Your brain's gone soft, Hobbes!"

Something in Pinocchio's voice, like desperate paranoia, flashed Hobbes back to the crazy Dreamer that attacked him outside of Bosko's club. He stared at his friend then strode toward the stake.

"Wait! This is wrong," he called out. The crowd forming a semi-circle around the stake protested loudly. In Sarajevo, Hobbes had seen how quickly mobs became blood-thirsty. This group was halfway there. "Hear me out. This is not the way. This is not _our_ way."

Voices came at him from the shadowed forms.

"She betrayed us!"

"She's Bosko's whore!"

Hobbes refused to back down. "Then why did he leave her here?"

"Why not?" called a man in the front. "He uses women and throws them away."

Hobbes took a step toward the man. "No. She's flawed like the rest of us. But we will not murder her." From his right, he saw Peter cut to the middle of the circle.

"It is not murder," the leader shouted to his followers. "It is sacrifice for the greater good."

Hobbes sensed this was the crucial minute. If he challenged Peter in front of the entire camp and came out on top then he could save Circe's life. "I say let her live. Cast her out. But don't kill her."

His words hung in the air, like an emotional sword between him and Peter. From the light of the full moon and the hovering torches, Hobbes saw the vehement look in Peter's eyes. His opponent thrust. He stabbed a finger at Hobbes.

"Imposter!" The mob pressed forward at the accusation. Peter seemed to feed on their energy. "You defend the traitor. You are not the One. You die with her!"

Hobbes had no time to react. The crowd surged toward him and he felt strong hands secure his arms and a thick arm wrap around his neck from behind. His boots scraped the dirt as he was dragged towards the stake. From the back of the group, he heard Dexter bark and a young girl's frightened voice call the dog's name.

Surrealism gripped him and Hobbes pictured the face of the girl who had designated herself as Dexter's caretaker from the moment they entered the camp. _'They're letting children watch someone being burned alive?'_

He tried to swing an elbow into the face of the man closest to him but couldn't get any power behind it and received a knee to the ribs for his attempt. The blow drove the air from his lungs and his legs went slack. Something hit the side of his head and white bursts of light filled his vision.


	7. Break the Dark

**PART 7 – BREAK THE DARK**

A part of Pinocchio saw this coming, yet he had let Hobbes try to reason with this backward bunch of Jonestown hicks. A larger part of him had even believed that his friend, out of anyone, could reverse the murder that Peter seemed so bent on. That larger part, however, got a solid kick in the head the instant Peter demanded Hobbes's death. He watched the mob close in around the young soldier.

"Great," he said. He didn't need to look to his right to know Florence was there but he met her eyes anyway. "This act is getting old." He started to plow through the crowd toward Hobbes but Florence grabbed his arm and pointed away from the main show.

Everyone in the crowd faced Hobbes and Circe, except one. A solitary figure turned away and headed toward the river—Garcia.

"What's his story? Can't stand the stench of burning flesh?" Then Pinocchio saw. Garcia paused by a bonfire, fumbling with something inside his coat, gathering up a long string of wires that had apparently wiggled away from him. "Hey!" Pinocchio shouted at him and took off at a sprint with Florence right behind.

Garcia's surprise was evident even in the dim light. He clutched what he held to his chest, turned, and ran for the woods. Pinocchio caught him with a flying tackle that sent them both to the ground. Seconds later, Garcia was on his back, with Florence stepping on his outstretched right arm, while Pinocchio tore open the man's coat to reveal wires snaking to a small handheld screen. It took all the self-control Pinocchio had not to bash the junkie's head against the nearest rock.

"You son of a bitch," Pinocchio spat. "Where did you get this?"

Garcia looked to be on the verge of tears. "I..I..I'm sick."

Pinocchio grabbed a fist full of Garcia's shirt at the collar and twisted. "You got it from Bosko."

…

With her eyes closed and her fingers pressed to the back of Tom's hand, Circe could almost take herself back, to when she had hope. Their fates were tied together now, quite literally. In a whirlwind of dust and fight, Peter's men had secured Tom to the stake. Despite being back-to-back, she could tell he had taken more than he had been able to dole out. His breathing was hard and she felt him shake with intermittent coughs as his body tried to recover from the blows and kicks it had received.

"Was any of it true," he asked suddenly, his voice raspy, "that story you told me?"

She opened her eyes and turned her head to try to see his face. "Every word." Peter approached with a flaming torch and Circe closed her eyes again. "Goodbye, Tom. I love you."

Without warning, a gunshot cracked over their heads, silencing the mob. Circe looked to see Florence's MP5 held aloft. Behind her, Pinocchio had his own weapon pointed at the crowd while dragging Garcia by the scruff of his jacket.

"You've got the wrong guys!" Pinocchio shouted. "This is Bosko's spy!" He pulled Garcia to the center of the circle and shoved him to the ground. With a rough jerk, he flipped open the man's jacket to reveal the wires still trailing down his side. "Look at him! It was him! He sold us out to get high!"

Florence was already loosening the bonds that held Tom and Circe. Pinocchio had turned his weapon on Peter, who had dropped the torch.

"Your junkie sold you out for his fix," Pinocchio said.

Peter and the others stared down at the shaking form of Garcia as the man scrambled to recoil the Digi-punch's wires to his chest.

Beside Circe, Florence had looped an arm around Tom's back and guided him, limping, from the stake and over to Pinocchio's side. The older soldier fiercely kicked Peter's discarded burning torch toward a section of the crowd.

"I know lemmings that are less easily led," Pinocchio said. "This barbecue is over."

The crowd separated as he led his tiny party toward a weathered pick-up truck behind one of the tents. Circe took over for Florence and helped Tom into the cab. Behind her, she heard a single pair of running feet and she turned quickly, expecting an attack.

A young girl with dark hair and eyes red and wet from crying held Dexter tightly to her chest. She kissed the dog on the head and hugged him, then held him up. Circe gathered the dog into her arms before climbing into the truck cab beside Tom and slamming the door. In the bed behind the cab, Florence crouched with her MP5 still pointed at the now-subdued crowd. Pinocchio settled in the driver's seat and called out to the quiet group of so-called Resistance fighters.

"We'll leave it in town. If I'm feeling generous, I won't torch it."

The engine turned over with a dirty growl and Pinocchio steered it away from the camp.

…

Potholes in the washboard road added to Pinocchio's growing list of reasons to risk stopping before they reached town. Safety kept him at a speed of around three miles per hour—the truck had no working lights, clouds kept covering the moon's light, and the winding, hilly back road was not the path they'd walked in on.

He fought to keep his eyelids from closing; he was pretty sure he had barely clocked three hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. A tight band had clamped around the top part of his brain and the pain from the headache made him slightly nauseous. Figures and shapes haunted his peripheral vision to the point that he had stopped checking to see if anything was really there. A few times he caught a smell that nearly made him vomit but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

Beside him, Hobbes coughed several times and tightened the one-armed grip he had around his midriff. Another cough resulted in a pain-induced gasp. Pinocchio did not say a word; he had seen enough of his partner's condition that was visible to know the kid's insides were probably bruised too—one eye just about swollen shut, a gash at the temple with a trail of dried blood. He guided the truck to an open patch under a large tree.

"We probably shouldn't—" Hobbes started, but Pinocchio cut him off.

"Shut it. We ain't gettin' anywhere in the dark on this crappy road. We might as well sleep and hit it come dawn." He rapped on the glass separating the truck cab from the bed but Florence was way ahead of him. In the blue light from the moon he could see her holding aloft some bedrolls while pointing to an open cardboard box and nudging it with her foot. "Sweet. Looks like we got some parting gifts."

From the passenger's side, Circe helped Hobbes from the truck while Dexter sniffed the immediate perimeter. Pinocchio got out and leaned on the edge of the truck bed to see what else Florence had discovered in the box. Besides the blankets, there were two working flashlights, several sealed bags of dried fruits and meats, an unopened bottle sealed with a cork and wax, a half-full gas can, and a small padded aluminum can with fifteen rounds of 9mm ammunition.

"Not enough for what they put us through, but it'll do," Pinocchio said, looking up at Florence who still stood in the back of the truck. "Hey." He nodded to where Hobbes sat with his back against the tree, knees folded to chest and arms wrapped around his ribs. Florence followed Pinocchio's gaze and then looked back at him and nodded. In one smooth motion, she unslung her MP5 and passed it to her friend before hopping effortlessly to the ground. Pinocchio reached for the box when Circe spoke.

"I'll look for some firewood."

He jerked and spun around, more startled than he should have been. The edginess clung to him now like tar.

"Too much coffee?" she asked. It seemed an attempt at alleviating the tension.

"Too much something," Pinocchio replied. Their eyes met and he thought she knew exactly what he meant.

"Yeah, there's a lot of that in these parts." The way she held herself made Pinocchio think of a rag doll that had been left in the rain, forgotten. "Bosko has the market cornered on it. He's a genius."

"He's a pig," Pinocchio corrected.

She let out a sad, soft laugh. "Maybe I should have tried turning him into a man. I like to think there are still good men out there."

In that moment, Pinocchio saw a woman that Hobbes would have fallen for, a woman _worth_ Hobbes falling for. As if reading his thoughts, she looked to where Florence crouched beside her patient with two hands hovering over his midsection.

"I'll get that wood," she said, turning away from the truck and toward the darkness that surrounded them.

"That should be a good spot for a fire," Pinocchio said, nodding toward Hobbes. Her brow furrowed for just a second, as if waiting for the punch line, but when none came she just smiled a little and offered a nod. Pinocchio figured she had earned the right.

…

Something woke Florence but she didn't know what. The fire still burned, small and quiet, and from her bedroll she sat up to survey the surroundings. Across from her, Thomas and Circe slept head-to-head. Dexter was curled tightly to Thomas's chest.

Michael had fallen asleep sitting up, leaning against the large tree in their circle. Ever since she had met back up with them after Bosko's, she had sensed something was not right with her friend. Nothing had been mentioned but it didn't need to be—the energy that radiated off Michael was nervous, anxious.

He gasped suddenly, his whole body jumped as if electrocuted and he jerked awake, clutching at the MP5 in his grip. His eyes were glassy and the firelight reflected the sweat on his face. He scanned his surroundings and when he met Florence's eyes he dropped his gaze. She unfolded herself from the blankets and crossed to him to pull the automatic weapon from his grip. Gently, she placed it on the ground before sitting beside him. He still didn't look at her, just folded his legs toward his chest. The move seemed to be more for security than comfort.

"It doesn't stop," he said, his voice raspy from sleep. "I can't make them stop." He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "It's like flashes and scenes…but it's real. They're in there now with my own memories. I can feel them on my brain. Fucking Bosko!" He ran his hands through his short hair and dug his nails into his scalp. "I just wanna reach in there and rip them out."

Florence gently placed her hands over Pinocchio's and guided them away from his head. He tugged from her hold and interlaced his fingers like a man in fierce prayer, leaning his forearms on his bent knees. She could see his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath.

"I did multiple tours in the Real World; I saw shit. I mean, serious shit. And I did things here, for Santiago…. And if I could take that back I would, a thousand times over I would. But, I didn't do things like…" He swallowed hard and shook his head violently. "I could never…No one who's human could do that stuff. I can smell it, Florence. I can hear it and taste it. It's in my mouth, it's on my skin and I just want to take a knife and scrape it off. Like if I just scrape deep enough it will be gone."

Finally, he met her gaze and his eyes shined with moisture. His voice was still rough but now it was from emotion. "I thought, maybe I deserve this, ya know? Penance. But..." He shook his head again. "I gotta make it stop." He pleaded through a whisper, "How do I make it stop?"

She honestly didn't know. To see her friend like this ripped into her soul. A lump of emotion bore down on her throat. She had traveled with Michael long enough to know the self-sacrificing individual that lay within. It took a strong character with a conscience to walk away from Santiago's right side. If she could have taken on Michael's pain, she would have. But she only knew how to follow the instincts that came with her healing gift. She did not know if it would work, but she would try.

With great tenderness she rested her hands at Michael's temples and left them there until she felt the familiar tingle build in her fingertips. Like usual, a sensation she thought of as warm stars spread to her fingers. This time however, it did not stay at that level. The pricking sensation grew, becoming sharp pulses. Needles seeped into her bones. Something flooded through her body and now tried to claw its way out and burst through her skin. A scream echoed in her head—not her voice but her pain—as if something controlled her emotions, something furious and, at the same time, terrified.

Tremors rattled through Michael. A sickening arc of electricity passed through Florence but she kept contact with her patient. A vicious, painful shudder shook her and she heard Michael gasp. The whole of Florence's chest filled with the deepest despair she had ever experienced. It was panic and rage, evil for the sake of an adrenaline rush. It was acid poured down her throat and the salty, metallic taste of her own blood and melting flesh on her tongue.

Never in her time as a Healer had she endured anything like this. She worried about somehow damaging Michael further. He shivered violently and, fearful, she was about to severe the connection when a cool wave rippled through her. Her senses cleared—she smelled only smoky wood, heard Thomas's heavy sleeping breath, felt the chill night air on her bare arms. Neither of them moved for several seconds. She stared at Michael but his eyes were closed, his face slack.

His head, still in her grip, dropped forward and she felt him tremble. Worry grabbed at her. It was still in him? How could there be more? So much had passed through her. Then she heard the release of a sob, the release of exhaustion and tension. She shifted to sit beside him and draped her left arm over his shoulders to pull him tight to her side. She wrapped her other arm forward to cradle his head.

He broke down. His body shook as he cried and he let himself melt into Florence's protective hold. A hoarse whisper cut through uneven breaths. "Thank you."

Florence felt her spirit balance. The same maternal energy that comforted and healed would defy and destroy anything that threatened those she protected. Heat radiated off Michael and she gently pressed her lips to the top of his head before laying her cheek there. She sniffed back her own tears and again heard his low voice. "Thank you."

Wrapped around her friend, Florence held her shield-like position even after Michael fell asleep. She too, was exhausted from the healing—she had never experienced anything so dark—but she refused to close her eyes. Only when Michael's rest remained simple and solemn did Florence slide away and cover him with a real blanket. She knew his emotional guard would be back up come morning, so she would spare him the awkwardness of waking in a vulnerable position. The Samurai might protect the Simple Man, but the Healer protected the Samurai.

…

The outskirts of Independence, Ohio came into view and Hobbes unconsciously braced himself for Pinocchio's usual increase of speed. A moment passed before he realized the Chevelle kept a smooth, steady pace. That morning, after they had retrieved Pinocchio's car from the alley near Dreamland, Circe had guided them toward the town about ten miles outside of Cleveland.

Except for Circe's occasional directions, the ride had been silent; not in an uncomfortable way, simply contemplative. Hobbes had caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror of the Chevelle and noticed he still carried a decent bruise around his temple and cheekbone. Considering how he had felt last night before Florence worked her magic, he was more than happy to let his body take care of the remaining discoloration.

Hobbes suspected he wasn't the only one who had received relief from the Healer during the night. Pinocchio seemed more at ease than he had since before their detour into Dreamland; the agitated energy was gone. What happened at Bosko's would mostly likely never be brought up, but he didn't need to know details. He remembered Pinocchio's words about Dreaming: _"Once you go there you never come back. Not all the way."_

But something told Hobbes that, thanks to Florence, they had gotten their friend back, all the way. He made a note to thank her when they were out of earshot of Pinocchio. Heaven forbid the man ever be faced with the fact that he had people who cared about him. Even Dexter had seemed to offer support—that morning he had been curled behind Pinocchio's knees with his head on the man's thigh. Not until Pinocchio awoke and told the dog, in an uncharacteristically affable morning voice, to go fetch some coffee did Dexter move.

"Just here is fine," Circe said from her spot in the backseat with Florence and Dexter.

Pinocchio slowed the Chevelle to a stop along the side of the road and Hobbes got out, helping Circe from the back. Though she was still dressed in the dirty clothes from the camp and her black, unwashed hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, Hobbes appreciated the raw beauty he saw in the late morning sunlight.

Circe stood close and looked up at him. "It meant a lot to me—it meant everything—that you believed me."

Hobbes showed a little smile. "You're a persuasive girl."

"I have a feeling," she said, "this time really is goodbye."

"You never know."

"I love you."

Circe said the words so quickly, Hobbes wondered if she had meant to say them aloud. With her dark brown eyes and olive skin she was like the antithesis of his blonde-haired, blue-eyed, fair skinned Sophie. But she was still beautiful and possessed the sort of strength that attracted him to his fiancée. He touched her cheek but at the same time shook his head.

"I know a different love," he said, "from another world."

Her brow furrowed. "Another world?"

"It exists. I can't prove it but I know it does. And that's why we can't be together."

Circe studied him for a few seconds, as if determining the truth of his explanation. "I see that now."

"We were pulled together. But we weren't meant to be together." He wished he could have given her a different answer, one that would have made her happy, and she seemed to understand that.

"I believe you. I know you have your own path to walk. And it's not an easy one, Tom."

He shook his head, wanting so much for her to understand the Real World, for her to know that somewhere on the other side of Harsh Realm there was probably a version of her living the beautiful, happy life she deserved.

"But you'll walk it. I know you will." This time, she touched _his_ cheek and he knew it was a gesture signaling goodbye.

The driver's door of the Chevelle creaked open and Pinocchio crossed back to the trunk. He appeared beside them a few seconds later and handed Circe a burlap sack. Hobbes knew it contained the dress she had worn at Bosko's, and a bedroll, a flashlight and some dried food from the box in the pickup. He also knew that, thanks to Pinocchio, Circe now possessed six rounds of the 9mm ammunition from that box. "_Good for trading,"_ Pinocchio had told her that morning when he pressed the bullets into the palm of her hand, obviously thinking no one else was near.

Circe nodded thanks to Pinocchio and offered a tiny wave to Florence before turning and walking away, head held high, without looking back.

Hobbes crossed his arms tight across his chest. "I don't love her."

"Of course not," Pinocchio said, standing by his friend as they watched Circe leave.

"Then why do I feel so bad?"

Pinocchio didn't answer, merely laid a hand on Hobbes's shoulder and squeezed it before nudging him toward the car.

_fin_

_stitch the flesh torn by the night_

_staunch the blood with hand of right_

_push back the sand with sword of might_

_and break the dark with healer's light_


End file.
